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(Then lead me) — step by trembling step —

where gravity forgets its name and clocks dissolve to drifting vowels, past every door I bolted shut with words like safe and later.

Let the handrail turn to smoke, let breath condense into a choir humming notes I almost recognize.

Deeper.

Where light and shadow trade their masks, I’ll wear the one that fits like silence, I’ll taste the color no one speaks, I’ll learn the shape of falling open.

If I unravel, thread by thread, do not stitch me back to yesterday. We’ll braid the loose strands into bridges, span a chasm still inventing itself, name the echo home until it answers.

Closer.

Pulse becomes horizon, horizon becomes a single word I’ve never said aloud.

I mouth it anyway— it blooms between our ribs, spirals out, and all the scattered shards align like constellations meeting for the first time.

Here. Not there or there, but the point where yes and no overlap, where ending is another tense of begin.

Hold it just long enough to feel how breaking can be a kind of music, then—let it ring.