No climbing back

The world tilts forward—

not a stumble,

but a hush,

as if the earth remembers

how to lean.

The asphalt narrows,

black ribbon pulled tight,

shoulders folding in,

sky pressing down—

a throat before a shout.

Every stone shines

like it knows the secret.

Every tree leans

like it wants to watch.

Even the air

stops rehearsing its excuses.

I do not brake.

I do not call it fear.

I call it a hinge,

a seam in the map,

a door that only opens

one way.

The road drops here—

and once it does,

there is no climbing back.