Something broke
before I knew its name.

The sound came first—
not thunder,
but a quiet giving way
inside the chest.

I went down
not as punishment
but as passage.

What falls
is often
what has finished
holding.

Even in the dark,
something knew
how to move.

A pulse.
A warmth.
The faint intelligence
of returning breath.

Light did not arrive
all at once.

It came as space—
a clearing,
a loosening,
a moment where the body
remembered
how to stand.

I step forward
without armor.

Not untouched—

but aligned.

The day holds me
as if it always
expected
my arrival.