Fin

It didn’t announce itself.
That’s what I keep coming back to.

There wasn’t a moment where I sat up and said, this is a book now. It just kept happening. Quietly. Between errands. Between versions of myself that didn’t know they were passing each other in the hallway.

I used to think holding onto the poems meant protecting them. Like if I stayed close enough, nothing could get lost. But carrying something too long starts to change your posture. Starts to make you lean.

I used to think I could not trust a piece of paper.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t holding the work anymore. It was holding me. Keeping me in the same place. Asking me to stay recognizable.

So I started loosening my grip.

Not all at once. Just enough to see what would happen if I stopped supervising every meaning. If I let the poems breathe without my shadow over them. If I trusted that they knew what they were saying even when I didn’t.

This doesn’t feel like closure.
It feels like transfer.

Like passing something through the window instead of the door. Like knowing it’ll be read out of order. Misheard. Loved sideways. And being okay with that.

UNSORTED is leaving my hands.

I’m still here.
Just standing differently.