Lessons in Gravity

The room is the colour of quiet water.
Mid-air, two bodies practice falling
without the bruise.

She leans like a pale comma,
he curves toward the clause she is.
Between them, soft blue cords—
lengths of sky—loop,
not binding but reminding: stay.

His hands learn her map,
one beneath the harbour of her knees,
one at the hinge of her back.
Her cheek finds the weather of his neck.
They borrow breath from one another’s shoulder,
trade heat like letters folded small.

Every coil says wait.
Every limb agrees.
If the earth will not carry us,
we will carry each other,
building a slow planet from touch,
a private orbit stitched in hush.

Look how the feet forget the floor.
See how the blue remembers their names.
In the long rehearsal of descent,
they perfect the single trick that matters:
to make a gravity out of grace,
to fall and still be held.