When I Drift

When I Drift

on remembering the anchor without blame

When I drift,

it is not failure.

It is information.

Something in me followed a signal—

a sound, a memory,

a pull that once meant safety.

Drifting doesn’t mean I am lost.

It means I am still sensing.

The water gets louder here.

Thoughts multiply.

Edges blur.

I do not scold myself back to shore.

I notice the distance

without turning it into a story.

Anchoring does not demand my return.

It waits.

So I slow the spin.

I feel for the weight of my breath.

I let my body remember

where gravity lives.

Drift softens.

The current loosens its grip.

And when I come back,

I do not arrive as someone corrected—

but as someone welcomed.

I am still,

not because nothing moves—

but because I no longer have to.

— Flower InBloom