Between Breath and Light
There was a moment
after the fire—
not ending,
not beginning—
just a stillness
I did not yet understand.
The kind
that does not ask anything of you.
The kind
that does not need to be held together.
My body
no longer reaching,
no longer aching,
no longer trying
to become something
for someone else—
just…
listening.
Breath moving
in and out
like it had always known
something I didn’t.
As if beneath the wanting,
beneath the heat,
beneath the pulse of it all—
there had always been
something quieter
waiting its turn.
A quiet
that did not feel empty.
A quiet
that felt…
full.
Not of longing,
not of absence,
but of something
I could not name
without disturbing it.
And for the first time,
I did not try to name it.
I did not reach for it.
I did not question it.
I just stayed.
Inside the breath.
Inside the stillness.
Inside myself.
And in that space—
somewhere between
what I had felt
and what I was beginning
to understand—
I felt it.
Not as touch,
not as heat,
not as something
I could hold—
but as something
that held me.
Gentler than both.
Quieter than both.
Like light
finding me
before I knew
how to look for it.
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