The Freediver

She folds the air into her chest like a letter not meant to be reopened soon, then tips past the silver ceiling of the world where light still gossips in coins.

The rope runs through her fist, a slow vein counting fathoms instead of years. Above her the surface heals over, a window glazing shut, and the blue forgets it ever knew her name.

Down here the pressure learns her ribs the way a hand learns the shape of fruit— firm, attentive, almost tender. Her heartbeat slows to the patience of stone. She is becoming the quiet she came for.

Then the body remembers it is borrowed. She turns, and the long climb begins, the surface a struck bell of brightness calling her up by the throat, until air breaks over her like applause.