i find myself within consciousness,
begging to carve
a shape from the blur.
doors shift in motion—
some open,
some vanish,
some were never there.
i long to exist
in the hush of nostalgia,
where breath was lighter,
and silence sang
of what we once called real.
time, burnt and folded,
etches me in place—
each second a scar,
a whisper on skin
that no longer flinches.
i am reminded
by the splits in pavement—
even the earth
can’t always hold itself together.
yet here i stand,
cracked,
still listening
for a door that opens
in temperance,
in softness—
i waver through emotion,
blurred by conversations
with ghosts of myself.
existence in the pits,
books hurled in silence,
yet i remain.
i sit beneath
the hands of the man i once was,
holding lips
beyond the tick
of what we used to be—
together,
before time
stopped asking
if we were ready.