There is a thought that lives between my ribs,I cannot name it,
cannot fold it into words,
and yet it lingers,
pulling the edges of my mind
with the gentlest insistence,
where every thought find sit own existence.
It stirs as the sun bows low,
washing the world in gentle gold.
it rests in the spaces between breaths,
in the quiet pulse of evening,
and I realize
It has always been here, quietly waiting.
It is neither joy or sorrow
neither memory nor desire.
It is the weight of knowing
that the world moves on,
and I am moving with it,
and still, somehow, there is a place inside me
that refuses to name itself.
And maybe that is enough
to feel something so alive,
so untamed,
that it cannot be named,
cannot be tamed,
cannot be rushed.
Only felt.
Only held.
