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.