The walls lean too close—
a room shrinking, folding inward,
breath skimming its own echo.
I press my palms against the silence,
but it does not press back.
Outside, the sky is stretched raw,
split open by something unwritten.
The wind shifts—no,
it tugs.
I am meant to move.
Steps—heavy here,
light there.
Feet know what hands cannot hold.
There is a road where the air hums,
a place where the weight lifts,
where gravity forgets my name.
I have left before,
a thousand times in a thousand ways—
not always in body,
but always in longing.
Somewhere, the ground does not question me.
Somewhere, my shadow does not drag.
Somewhere, the trees do not whisper—
they call.
And I—
I have never been good at staying
when something
out there
knows me better than home ever could.