I stand at a familiar cliff,
the wind pushing—
palms hard against my back,
hands stuffed in my pockets—
palms restless, unsure—
tired of running on empty.
The sea below rises and falls,
a slow inhale, an exhale—
waiting.

Beside me, the suitcase,
scuffed leather and burnt umber moods—
the handle worn smooth
from all the times I carried it,
the lock rusted, clenched tight—
its mouth full of words
I never had the courage to say.

I think of jumping—
the thought comes at a cost,
between the gusts
and the fact
that I’ve been here before.

I shift my body—
feel the solid earth beneath me,
and turn my hands toward the case instead.
I kneel, trace its seams one last time—
inside, the same letters,
the same ghosts—
pages creased from second-guessing,
a name stitched into the lining,
one I never learned to erase—
mine.

I grip the handle—
tight, then tighter.
The wind howls, impatient—
one deep breath.

And then—I let go.

The suitcase tumbles forward,
flipping midair,
spilling silence into the wind.
For a moment there,
it almost seems as if it can fly—
then it drops, plunges,
disappears into the deep.

I wait—just in case.

The sea swallows.
The wind dies down.
My hands feel open.

I turn—walk away,
and leave nothing behind
It feels nice
to set fire to everything I’ve been.