SOFT COLLAPSE

The day unravels slowly,

threads slipping through my fingers

before I even notice I’m letting go.

I sink into the quiet,

not falling,

just easing downward

like something tired finally admitting it.

No crash,

no shatter —

just a soft collapse,

gentle enough to feel like rest

instead of ruin.

My breath comes thin,

but steady.

The world dims to a hush,

and for once

I don’t try to brighten it.

I let the gray sit with me,

a companion instead of a warning.

Some nights aren’t meant for rising.

Some nights are meant

for sinking safely into yourself,

feeling the weight that’s been waiting

to be acknowledged.

I fold inward,

not to disappear

but to mend —

small stitches made in silence,

slow repairs the world will never see

but will feel

when I stand again.

There’s a strange peace

in breaking gently,

in allowing the moment

to lower you to your knees

without fear

that you won’t return.

Soft collapse —

a surrender without defeat,

a quiet fall

that knows it’s only temporary.

And when the light returns,

so will I.