In the Middle of

I haven’t turned around,

but I haven’t quite arrived, either—

just this soft stretch of gravel and breath,

sun puddling in patches I can’t step around.

The wind keeps saying almost,

the trees nod like they know something

but won’t say.

I’m holding the jacket I thought I’d need,

the apology I meant to send,

and a name I don’t answer to anymore.

There’s a hill ahead

(not steep, just steady)

and the kind of sky that feels like

a held-in question.

Somewhere behind me,

the door clicked shut,

but no one yelled after.

No one noticed the pause.

Maybe I didn’t either

until the sound of my own shoes

started to feel like a language.

There’s no map.

Only the way the light shifts

when I move,

only the weight of what I haven’t said

settling into the silence

like it belongs there.

Maybe I’ll write it down later.

Or maybe this is the writing.

The middle.

The movement.

The maybe.