The Drop
Suspended between what was and what will be
By Carolina BorgesPublished 4 months ago • 1 min read
Photo by Terry Vlisidis on Unsplash
The air holds its breath.
So do I.
A glass tipped
but not shattered.
A tide gathering
but not breaking.
Behind me—
the familiar ache of footprints.
Ahead—
a blur sharp as a blade,
a horizon that asks
for blood.
My body leans
before I agree to it,
already confessing
to gravity’s quiet hunger.
This is the second
before the thread snaps,
before the silence
turns to sound.
Not falling.
Not flying.
Only the holy ache
of almost.
About the Creator
Carolina Borges
I've been pouring my soul onto paper and word docs since 2014
Poet of motherhood, memory & quiet strength
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Comments (2)
So much feeling and imagery in such a short time well done.
Oooo, gravity's quiet hunger, I especially loved that. I’ve followed you on Instagram hehehe