you run holding your breath to meet it
and the exhale that follows is both public and private.
At some point the air is out
the bright balloon that you were that bounced through the last days
so visible, animated and claimable
is suddenly inert, deflated, floppy.
There I am on the sofa
There I am in bed
in the middle of an afternoon
wrapped in a coma-like sleep where the tensions fall away from my body
one after the other
layers sliding off and dissolving into nothing.
What it means to be done.
Into the summer of my independence.