The first brick is always the hardest,
its rough edges begging for hesitation—
a pause in the shoulder’s rhythm.
Hands crack open under dust’s weight,
bodies muttering secrets into wet cement.
We imagine permanence where chaos lives,
slather mortar to bridge invisible gaps,
tell ourselves we’re constructing something whole.
But bricks never explain their intentions.
They sit, stacked and silent, stubborn
as a promise no one meant to keep.
We twist our wrists to meet their demands,
line them up until walls find their shape.
I wonder if bricks ever feel lonely,
crushing each other under unspoken weight,
or if they dream of the open air,
a collapsing moment when gravity wins.
Still, we build, because we miss
what unfinished feels like in our ribs.
Because foundations are a language
we forgot how to speak out loud.