The door was open Music spilling into the street

The door was open. Music spilling into the street

like they were inviting me back.

Three years since I stopped coming,

and I didn't tell anyone.

One morning I woke and my body said no,

and I listened.

The music is the same.

I know these beats the way you know

a person's footstep from the other room.

But walking past today, I realized:

I don't miss this.

Not the early mornings,

not the practice,

not the idea of being someone who does this thing.

What I miss is the reason to get up.

The small yes that pulled me out of bed

before the day could decide what I was.

Inside, someone's working on something

that won't matter to anyone but them.

The door stays open.

I keep walking.

And that's what you learn when you quit—

the thing you learn is never the thing itself.

It's what the thing was standing in for.

The yes. The motion. The before.