The Tarrowing
There is no shame in lingering where possibility lives.”
I tarrow
at the edge of becoming,
half-ghost, half-girl,
unsure which silence to trust.
My fingers
hover over doors I built,
but never dared to open.
Not fully.
There’s a name I no longer say
in the voice I used to have.
There’s a love
pressed between two lifetimes—
not gone, just
folded.
I tarrow,
not out of fear,
but reverence.
Not everything must be leapt into.
Some things deserve
a sacred pause.
So I linger.
So I ache.
So I listen
for what lingers back.
—
So I tarrow through my days,
almost making a decision—
but no.
I tarrow like it’s a holy sacrament.
Living on the margins
makes everything possible.
So I tarrow,
not from fear,
but reverence.
For what might be lost
in a single step forward.
The in-between is my chapel.
The maybe, my prayer.
I am not indecisive—
I am worshipping
possibility.
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