Today, on the edge of the field,
I stepped out of my ritual,
not with dissent,
but with a kind of soft forgetting.

The wind did not ask where I was going.
It only lifted the hem of my certainty.

Behind me:
a trail of clenched gestures,
the echo of “should,”
a chorus of small silences
I had mistaken for peace.

A fear, unbuttoned,
turned its face from mine.
I did not chase it.

Instead, I listened.
The body spoke in heartbeats,
the breath in questions.
Even the grass seemed to murmur:

You are not your repetition.
You are not your ache.

I walked until the path unravelled.
Until the habit could not follow.
Until the sky,
unembellished,
welcomed me in.