Out of My Body

Out of my body.

That is how today feels.

Like I am here
but not all the way.

Like some part of me
stepped out quietly

and did not turn around
when I called.

So I grip myself.

Not for beauty.

For keeping.

Because the self
is a fragile thing
when sorrow
keeps touching it.

I have cried
as much
as it rained
on my city.

And still
nothing in me
feels washed clean.

There are days
I do not recognize
myself.

Because wanting to forget
can make a stranger
out of your own skin.

Because ache
does not always cry.

Sometimes it enters the body
and moves the furniture.

Sometimes it sits
where the breath should be

and refuses
to explain itself.

Because silence
can stand in a room
like another person

and still
say nothing.

Maybe reincarnation
is not returning
as someone else.

Maybe it is waking up
inside the same woman

again

after every grief
that promised
to finish her.

And still

my hand stays.

Tired.

Human.

Holding.

As if tenderness
has nowhere else
to go.

As if I am both
the one falling

and the one
who cannot bear
to let her fall.

Because I have already lost
so many versions of myself

I cannot afford
to lose this one too.