What if it’s all beautiful—
a choice?
What if we name it,
and what if we don’t?
Can I still dream of
slow mornings and still legs,
with skies tinted with colors
no one has yet named?

To sink and find a new world
beneath the one I know,
beneath groundwater
pulling at our feet—
Not to run away,
but to find the shape I used to wear,
before I knew how to fold into myself,
before the edges started to tear—
of something I’ve forgotten how to care for.
Each step softer, slower,
becoming—
but I stumble each time,
and I don’t know how to walk correctly
half the time, so I choose to stand.

Surrender in the quiet,
let the ripples take what they will.
Gone before waking,
before the silence takes form
through my initials,
a hollow shape I carved into mist—
the scent of rain
that hangs
a name the air refused to hold.
The ground remains dry,
forgotten,
one letter at a time
and I become nothing again.

But what if, through my insignificance,
my voice could break water,
not like a stone, but a breath,
dissolving before splitting,
a sound so soft
no one turns to listen,
but still,
brief and real while it lasts,
shifting the current all the same,
would it reach the stars above me?
And if not,
I will stretch my arms out—
even if it feels small,
even if I feel small,
I will stretch my arms out anyway.