The Weight of It

You called at midnight

and I knew before you said it

that you were falling.

You always call when you're falling.

Never when you're steady.

Never when you've figured something out.

Just when the ground disappears

and you need to remember

that someone else is solid enough for two.

You came over and sat on my couch

and I felt you settle into it

like it was the first time in weeks

you'd stopped moving.

Your weight was real.

I could feel it pressing down.

I could feel myself holding you up

just by being here,

just by not moving,

just by being the kind of person

who doesn't flinch when someone falls toward them.

When you left, there was an indent in the cushion.

Your shape, pressed into the fabric,

proof that you'd been heavy,

proof that I'd held it,

proof that the sitting down

had been real.

I didn't smooth it out.

I left it there all night,

looking at the shape of you

still pressed into my couch,

still taking up space

even though you were gone.

That's what gravity does to people.

It pulls them down.

It makes them need something underneath.

It makes them heavy

until they're not.

But the indent stays.

The couch remembers.

I remember.

And when you call again—

and you will call again—

I'll be here,

still solid,

still holding,

still the one who knows

what it feels like

to be the ground

someone else falls toward.