A Verb, Not a Noun

I want to be the silence between the music notes, not the chord that makes everyone happy, but the breath that is held after the sound, the space in the rock, the dark that holds the coming light.

I want to be the sort of calm that is chosen, not the breaking quiet of a suppressed storm, but the calm, still center of a loud spinning noise, the feathers grounding in a hurricane, the binding that I have made myself.

I want to be a verb rather than a noun, the listening, not the listener; the seeing, not the one seen.

To be the very thing that the light is going down, the exact color where blue meets green, and the one who patiently watches as it changes.

I want to be the midnight that shines.

I am awake and have a universe inside my head where galaxies are made from the nervous humming, and in which chaos is transformed into something lovely and entirely, secretly, mine.

I want my own weird shape to have the courage, the fingerprint whorl, the strange, shaped mental land, to stop constructing homes for the love that I hope will come and be.