The Exhale

The vacation—
not the destination,
not the drinks,
not the pictures—
but the quiet.

The absence of the noise.

No radios.
No calls.
No “Chef, can I ask you something?”
No masks to wear.
No posture to hold.

Just space.
Just breathe.
Just the sound of your own mind
settling back into itself
like dust in still air.

It takes three days
for your spine to remember it’s not armor.
For your jaw to unclench.
For your thoughts to stop racing
toward everyone else’s needs.

You forget how much you carry
until you set it down
and hear the ground sigh.

Out here,
you’re not useful.
You’re not a title.
You’re just a man
watching water move,
watching time pass
without asking anything from you.

And the silence?
It doesn’t demand a thing.
It just stays.
And in staying,
it gives back what the noise took.