the lake gives back everything thrown into it
a pebble, a leaf, the whole weight of the sky
it takes the shape of the cliff beside it without the cliff ever bending, even once, toward it in return
it takes the gray light in and stays open anyway
flat enough, patient enough, to be a floor for whatever falls
you spent the whole season learning how to be water
learning to carry every storm that blew down off the ridge
softening your edges until there was no shore left under you to stand on
giving up your own tides just to keep the surface calm for someone else’s reflection
then the first cold wind comes off the high rock
and for once you ask for something small
one bank, one place to rest the weight you’ve been carrying for both of you
and the cliff looks down at you and says you should have learned to be granite
the way it holds its own shape without ever once needing to be told to
as if bending for an entire season was never devotion, just a failure to harden in time
so you sink beneath yourself
down into the dark where the cold is clean and doesn’t pretend to be anything else
you carry the ache the way a riverbed carries its rocks, not gently, just permanently
and down there, in the dark, you finally see it clearly
the cliff has been staring at its own face in you since the very first thaw
counting on you to stay smooth enough, still enough, to keep showing it back to itself
every wave you tried to survive on your own, it simply waited out, patient for the water to settle so it could go back to looking
you go under, all the way this time
and the surface closes over you like it was never disturbed at all
somewhere up there, the cliff is already admiring the stillness
—lyra moon (i gave the cliff every version of myself except the one that finally sank)
september 4, 2026