The ground is not as whole as it once was before. The earth is irreparable now, its motion not lent toward stability but cascade. Its silence is kinetic, roaming like a dream given to lusting eyes, and retreating back into that carelessness when the soil begins to break. I am broken soil. They cannot see it, enraptured to those parting schemes: momentum they cannot begin to stop. They are blameless, but god how it feels to drift, waning in that effort to be known. It all breaks so easy. For me, love is just a place to be overlooked.