nothing not the absence but the hum a low and breathing hum that curls around thought soft and enormous, like sleep that never began
there is no edge no gate, no watcher at the boundary only the fall backward into the colorless swell into airless grace the kind of grace that asks for no praise
I forget what I was saying, and isn’t that the gift? the quiet slipping of meaning, words unraveling mid-sentence and floating like ash weightless, harmless, warm
this is where clocks don’t go where names don’t press into skin where I don’t end and begin because I don’t
a soft exhale a light that isn't light filling every place with the sound of no footsteps no questions no hunger just—
nothing
and in it I bloom without form stretch without reaching exist without needing to be seen.