Let me fall. That is all.

It takes time for the fist to let go.

Skin remembers before the mind does.
Half-moons buried in the palm,
old negotiations between nail and flesh.
So deep now
the hand reads like an old map.

And, something is opening.

Not surrendering.
Not noise. Nor the lack of it
Just the exhaustion of holding.

What had been “mine”
had already started to leave
while I thought I tightened around it.

Now the palms stay open
for reasons bigger than need.

Like the habitual hunger of a beggar.
Like a mother’s hand left suspended in the air
after the child has already crossed the road.

I am unlatching from things; strange and familiar

The fever called love, which is the toughest.
the theatre of hatred,
the polished armour of indifference.

Even the pride of not reaching.

Some nights I can feel the grip returning, the jaws clenching again

But morning comes every day

and it loosens it again.

If I fall,
let it be.
If you fall,
I will let you be.

I am no longer certain
that if rescue is even needed.

I am no longer certain if peace is needed.

The hand opens.
That is all.