Stillness in Between

life has paused

not stopped,

just a quiet hum between two unfinished songs.

the colors dried before I could name them,

and now the air holds

only what used to be art.

I don’t make anymore.

I only remember

the motion of making.

how the world once

breathed through my hands.

the artist in me is fading

without ceremony,

like light leaving a room

no one walks into anymore.

I miss my people.

but I stay far,

telling myself they’re alright

without me.

it’s easier that way.

the guilt comes soft,

not loud or cruel,

just a quiet reminder

that promises have weight

even when no one keeps count.

my mother still waits, I think,

in the same light

that once waited for me.

the good in me,

it still stirs sometimes,

like a hand reaching from water.

but I’ve learned to look away.

reality feels easier

when blurred.

the rest of me

the part that shouldn’t be seen

sits beneath all this calm.

it listens to my thoughts

like a stranger at a train station

who won’t make eye contact.

nights are long conversations

with no listener.

I speak anyway

not to be heard,

but to remember I still have a voice.

sometimes,

I want to lift off,

float somewhere quiet,

be held by air instead of thought.

the calm in me wants to scream

not to break the world,

just to prove

it’s still inside me.

and maybe that’s enough.

the wanting,

the almost,

the stillness that means I’m still here