he didn’t ask.
  i didn’t want him to.
no command.
  no silence.
    only the slow
      shift
        of gravity.
the spine
  yielded first.
then
  the breath.
then

    the idea
      that this
        was ever mine.
he entered,
  not with force,
    but with weight.
and i
  did not open.
    i let go.
it wasn’t pain.
  but something
    fell
      from me.

or
  was pulled.

or
  never
belonged.
i remember the touch
  not as skin,
    but as
      a shift
        in pressure,
          a presence
            that never returned.
he didn’t say
  “mine.”
but i answered
  in the way
    my thigh
      stopped resisting
        the edge
          of being
              used.

—

sitting  
  is never stillness.  
it happens  
  between gravity  
    and giving in.

the floor  
  remembers your knees  
not as form,  
  but as  
    insistence.

pressure  
  is not gesture.  
pressure  
     rewrites the body
into a map
of its own erosion.

your body  
  is not placed,  
    it is  
      disturbed  
        into language.

chair  
  is not stable.  
floor  
  is not support.

you sit   
  and become  
    a site  
      of folding.

collapse  
  is not  
    failure.  
it is  
  a different  
    syntax  
      of presence.

—

there was  
  no contour.  
only  
  weight.  

and the way  
  skin  
    gave way 
like fabric  
    stretched  
      too long.

i lie down,  
  not as body,  
    but as  
      the dent  
        left in a mattress  
          after someone dreams  
            and leaves.
  

the knees  
  are not mine.  
but something splits  
  inside -  
    not pain,  
      but the hush  
        trees give  
          when they witness  
            disappearance.

a hand brushes  
  the thigh.  
not a gesture,  
  but a question  
    folded into warmth,  
      a seam of skin  
        waiting  
          to answer.

you don’t ask  
  who i am.  
your silence  
  already decides.  
and i  
  let it.

maybe i was.  
maybe  
  i unraveled  
    before you looked.  
maybe  
  just the echo  
    stayed.

in that moment  
  between breath  
    and the pull of absence,  
i stopped  
  being  
    a name.  
i became
  not flesh,  
  but surface:  
    where memory  
      meets forgetting.
             like the fabric
                    that still holds
                           the shape
                                 of someone
                                            gone.


—

i move  
    not one,
     not two,
but as the tide
   counts its losses.
  
sometimes, i lean  
    with weight that guards.  
sometimes, i lean  
    with skin that listens.  

i am not between.  
i am both.

    when the room calls,  
    i answer  
    with whichever form  
    feels true.

—

this isn’t voice.
it’s what’s left
when breath forgets
the shape it was meant to hold.

i am
  not a subject.
  not a thought.
  not a name
    shaped for the world.

i am
  the dent
    in the sofa
      where a body
        once sighed
          and forgot to rise.

i am
  the shape left
    not by hands,
      but by the air
        that refused
          to hold it.

touch
  is not arrival,
  it is the echo
    of the shape
      i no longer am.

my skin
  does not seek understanding.
  it does not perform.
  it bends,
  soft and warm,
    inviting nothing
      and nothing
        but its own undoing.

dont look for me.
im not missing.
see,
i’m already etched
  into the floor
    whose name
      you never spoke.

sometimes,
  the floor / whose name / you never spoke /
    suddenly / laughs / in splinters.


—

this text  
    does not ask to be read  

it asks  
    to be entered  
    to be felt  
    to be mistaken  
        for silence  

every gap  
    is grammar  

every fracture  
    is a sentence  

you are not meant  
    to understand  

you  
    are meant  
        to remain


—