The smoke burns low;
a small, fierce sun at the room’s heart.
I draw it in, slow and deep,
and the air thickens into something tangible,
a silver tide, slow-moving and generous,
settling deep into the marrow of me.
Thoughts that once raced
begin to loosen their grip,
old fears and sharp memories
are tangled in the heavy haze,
drifting skyward, thinning and dissolving
until they vanish, too fine to see.
My limbs melt to lead,
pressed heavy into the cushions,
grounded in a way my mind cannot manage on its own.
Trauma, a jagged, burning wire
is at last coated in thick smoke.
The cloud lingers, not just in the air;
It becomes a silent, heavy witness
that asks nothing,
expects no forced smiles and
demands no healing or answers.
Held in place by a dense, warm gravity,
I’m tucked in the quiet heart of the cloud
where the noise of the world can
No longer find me.