Halcyon

lighter than gravity

years ago,
i told him the room had no lock,
that the walls only listened if you believed them.

years later,
i furnish the same room,
call it home.

isn't it strange—
how cruelly, beautifully
the persuader becomes the prisoner
of the very fate
he once ached to escape?

he taught me how fire lies,
how warmth pretends to be belonging.
now i warm my hands in the same blaze,
burning without asking why.

he showed me where the water was shallow,
how to walk out with wet ankles, laughing.
i turned back once,
and learned how to breathe underwater.

i fell into fate
like someone rehearsing a role
i once convinced another to quit.

words that widened his world
walled me in.

i once said, "you don't have to stay."
he believed me and left
lighter than gravity.

years later,
i wonder if i said it
because fate already knew
one of us would.