Fall.

O heights—
sky opened, breath wide,
pleasure without edge.
All was gift.
All was ours.

Until.

Piercing bite.
The fruit yields.
Sweetness floods the mouth,
runs warm through bone and thought.

The eyes catch a faint tremor
in air once filled with song.
Hues dim.
Sound thins.
The body knows
before the mind can speak.

Shame draws its first line.

It—
is finished.

What had been given
now feels taken.
What had been whole
now knows itself as bare.

The ground holds its breath.
The garden does not speak.

And God—
does not.