I forgot why I came outside—
but the breeze feels like enough.
I walk because I started to,
because sitting felt like too much
and stopping felt like giving up.
My thoughts trip over each other.
I meant to write something down—
something good,
something clever,
but the pen’s at home
and so is the focus.
The sun’s hitting the sidewalk like a spotlight
on a scene I haven’t scripted.
I don’t know my lines.
Don’t know the plot.
Just moving
like maybe it’ll come to me.
I’m not lost.
Just mid-thought,
mid-sentence,
mid-something I’ll remember later.
I am the paragraph between decisions.
I am the step between questions.
I am not lost.
Just not arrived.
About the Creator
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More stories from Annie Edwards and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Sound That Carries Me
When I lie in bed, the train always finds me. The wheels slam against the tracks, loud and unforgiving, like something inside me that never learned how to rest. The horn cuts through the dark in broken intervals. Too close, too real, impossible to ignore. It drags me back to the fields of my childhood. Back when I thought life was simple. It wasn't. I just didn't have the language for how heavy it already felt. I was small, trying to survive things I didn't know how to name yet.
By Sarai Jakubczakabout 8 hours ago in Poets
Comments (2)
You've captured that in-between feeling perfectly.
The journey is not complete, you have not yet reached the final destination.