Gravity Can’t

Some mornings I wake up

with your name taped to my ribs,

like a heavy label

The world insists I keep wearing.

﹁﹂

I make coffee too strong,

stare at the sink full of dishes

and think

This is what surviving looks like, huh.

﹁﹂

Love used to feel like lift,

like running barefoot down a hallway,

laughing,

not caring where I landed.

﹁﹂

Now it’s weight.

A wet coat I can’t peel off,

a backpack filled with apologies

that weren’t even mine.

﹁﹂

I walk anyway.

Small steps, ugly steps,

the kind that don’t make movies,

just sore feet and quiet pride.

﹁﹂

The sun hits my window at noon

and I flinch,

like brightness is something I have to earn

with pain first.

﹁﹂

But I open the curtains.

I let the light in

even when it shows my mess,

even when it shows me.

﹁﹂

I’m learning the trick:

Gravity can pull hard

but it can’t make me stay

If I keep choosing up.