My heart floats in the hollow between beats,
a weightless thing, neither here nor gone,
left in the purgatory of almosts and maybes.

Time drips slow, like sap from a wounded tree,
every second stretched thin,
every breath a whisper of what could be.

Hope dangles, fragile and frayed,
a spider’s thread trembling in the wind,
unsure if it will hold or snap
under the weight of a longing unspoken.

I do not bleed, I do not weep—
I simply linger,
caught in this timeless pause,
my heart in suspended animation,
waiting for the whisper of her touch,
the warmth of her voice,
to pull me back to life.

Her sneers cut like invisible razors,
slivers of disdain slicing through the air,
the silence swelling with unspoken judgments.

Each twist of her lip is a verdict,
a dismissal of the things I am,
a shadow cast over the fragile corners
where I hold my own worth.

Her eyes, sharp as broken glass,
reflect nothing of me,
only the cold echo of her discontent,
a tide that pulls my spirit under.

I feel it in my chest—
a tightness,
as though the air around me
is hers to withhold,
and I am left gasping
in the storm of her unkindness.

Yet still, I stand,
weakened but unbowed,
seeking in the ruins of her scorn
some thread of strength
that does not rely on her mercy.