My vitals are excellent—
Thank you for asking.
Pulse: unhurried.
Breath: sovereign.
Pressure: low tolerance for nonsense.
I carry a kind of richness
That doesn’t cling in pockets
or introduce itself at dinner.
It enters a room the way good light does—
without permission,
without apology,
And suddenly everything is clearer.
My mind is well-appointed—
not crowded, not for rent.
I keep only what thinks back:
ideas with spine,
questions with manners,
silence that knows when to speak.
My body is not a project.
It is a residence—
sunlit, lived-in,
with boundaries that close softly
and locks that do not negotiate.
I walk like I’ve already arrived
because, in the ways that matter, I have.
My soul keeps excellent company.
It refuses cheap seats,
declines noisy bargains,
and sends regrets to chaos
without a forwarding address.
My spirit—
Now she is a quiet show-off.
She does not perform on command
But she will, from time to time,
tilt the room toward wonder,
lift a conversation by the collar,
Remind gravity it is not in charge.
I am not interested in being impressive.
Impressions fade.
I prefer to be undeniable—
a fact you discover slowly,
like a good line you wish you’d written.
Compliments arrive.
They sit briefly, like well-behaved guests.
I offer them tea,
and when they leave,
nothing in me goes with them.
There is a rumor that wealth is loud.
I find it well-mannered—
It lowers its voice,
chooses its company,
tips generously,
and knows when to go home.
If my stillness unsettles you,
consider it a public service.
Not everything that shines
needs to flicker.
I keep my abundance close to the bone—
where it can warm me,
where it cannot be counted,
where it learns my name by heart.
Vitality, you see,
is not a spectacle.
It is a practice.
And I am,
in mind, body, soul, and spirit,
consistently—
rich–
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