Midstep

I am walking

but not really moving,

the soles of my shoes

remembering the cracks in the sidewalk

better than I do.

A notebook rests

against my hip, unopened,

like a secret I’m not ready to tell,

the pen loop empty

but heavy with intent.

The wind carries a smell I almost recognize—

coffee? rain? something lost long ago—

and I catch myself

half-smiling, half-listening,

but not sure if it’s at the memory or the moment.

I pass the same tree

I passed yesterday,

and maybe the day before,

its branches a familiar outline against the sky,

not threatening, not comforting,

just there.

I am thinking

but the thought dissolves before I name it,

slips into the spaces between the cars,

the pause of a crow’s wings,

the scuff of my foot against the curb.

I am leaving something behind,

though I don’t know what—

or if it will follow me

in the echo of a footstep,

or vanish like smoke

before I even notice.

Midstep, midbreath,

the world presses its edges gently,

and I feel the weight

of everything unfinished

but not urgent.

I keep walking.

Or maybe just standing.

Not quite here, not quite anywhere else.