Just a Line

Hours at the screen,

my shoulders round,

a question mark

of posture.

I lean back, slow.

A small, sharp pop,

a tiny crack of sound,

somewhere deep, inside.

My body, a strange house

with its own creaks.

The spine, that column,

holding everything,

a line of small, hard stones

threaded on a wire.

I reach, I stretch.

It curves, it bends,

vulnerable.

Just this,

this architecture of bone,

between standing and falling.