I would give you my slice of life, but
it’s like trying to hand you the horizon
a stretch of color that can never fit in your palm
You’d ask for details,
and I’d offer the taste of rain on the skin,
the way the world holds its breath before thunder,
a pause that fills your lungs like forgotten words.

There are mornings I wake up
and the air feels like an old letter,
creases worn smooth by time
I would give you that too,
but how do you hold a memory
that hasn’t yet figured out what it is?

You would want to know about the silence
between the seconds
the space where nothing happens
and everything happens
I’d give you that,
if I could explain how it feels
to sit with a half-made thought.

I can only offer fragments
a fleeting look in someone’s eyes,
the quiet rhythm of a clock
refusing to rush when you want it to
the way a day slips from morning to evening
I would give you my slice of life,
but all I have are these pieces,
and none of them are quite enough
quite complete
to make you feel what it’s like
to live inside them