When the Ceiling Learns to Breathe

It starts in the bones of the floorboards—

a slight persuasion,

as if weight itself were tired of loyalty.

Shadows lengthen without moving,

and the lamp hums louder

like it knows a secret.

No avalanche.

No horn.

Just the subtle refusal of angles to stay true.

Glass tilts before water does.

Time hesitates,

asks if it has ever been straight at all.

Somewhere in the chest

a gear unhooks—

you don’t hear it,

but suddenly every silence tastes metallic.

This is not falling.

Not flight.

More like a coin deciding midair

which face it will keep.

The ceiling sighs.

The floor inhales.

And the body,

without permission,

leans into the pull

as if forward had always been waiting.