He wakes beneath a ceiling
that feels miles above his chest,
gravity choosing him
for its private experiment.
Once, he was lightning -
ideas ringing like bells,
heart outrunning his body,
building empires before sunrise.
Now he is ash.
The clock ticks like a hammer.
The bed keeps his shape.
Morning presses at the curtains
but cannot reach him.
He is tired of the altitude of mania,
tired of the plunge that follows -
the sky opening beneath him
instead of above.
He studies his reflection
like a stranger left behind.
“I just want to be numb”
The words fall heavy,
a plea folded into steel.
He doesn't want joy.
He doesn't want fire.
He just wants quiet -
a stillness without teeth.
Somewhere, deep beneath
the wreckage of extremes,
a small pulse insists:
stay.
Not loudly.
Not brightly.
Just -
stay.