The
escalator pulls me out of the ground,
neon leaking on the wet steps.
A busker's cord hangs in the tunnel,
air unfinished.
Loud enough to follow my breath.
Fog's a strip of glass on the exit door.
Someone pushes past my shoulder.
The night moves fast in every direction like it's late.
For something I missed,
I keep mistaking motion for meaning.
Just to feel ahead of myself.
There's a rush in my chest when I almost
decide right before I choose to stay.
Not the kind that burns through the moment.
The kind that quietly rearranges my ways.
It isn't adrenaline.
It's a sudden stillness I feel.
And siren noise.
A crosswalk floods with white embodies.
Phones glowing like small exits.
Two people argue softly over directions,
both pretending they know.
I used to chase the sharp edge,
or maybe the quick guess,
the easy spark.
Now I pause where the city blurs my outline.
Just long enough to hear my heart slow down.
Every shortcut sounds convincing until I listen to my feet.
There's a rush in my chest when I almost run,
but I turn back into my breath.
Not because I'm afraid of the fall.
Because I finally care how I land.
It is in control.
It's choosing a quieter speed.
It still feels alive.
I thought excitement meant escape velocity.
No gravity, no return.
But there's a deeper kind of momentum.
And staying long enough to learn.
No spotlight, no perfect timing.
No soundtrack telling me when to go.
Just my body teaching me what already knows.
There's a rush in my chest when I
finally trust what doesn't push me ahead.
When the city keeps daring me to disappear,
and I choose to be instead.
It isn't slowing down.
It's learning how fast I move when I'm present.
I miss the last green light.
Let the street clear first and walk on.
Exactly my pace.