The In-Between

The air shifts first, tastes different—

a catch in my throat that barley burns,

awakens

like God brushing a thumb across my cheek

to say, pay attention now.

The last leaves cling to their branches,

bargaining with the wing.

One last dance, they say.

Please, just one last dance.

Holding on—

the way I hold on to people,

too long, too gently,

promising to never let go.

But even the last leaf must fall.

And somehow, that doesn't scare my tonight.

The ground smells of resh starts and forgotten apples,

sweetness turning to earth.

The cold isn't harsh yet—

just the kind that wakes you up,

makes you stand a little straighter,

pull your coat a little tighter,

like a soft boundary.

I hear branches clicking,

not breaking—

just shifting their weight.

Preparing.

The light goes early,

but it leaves slow,

wishing it could stay,

peeling itself away.

I'll be back, it whispers.

Gold softening into blue,

blue sinking into something deeper.

And the world waits,

held between two heartbeats,

the in-between.

Not losing anything,

just letting go of what cannot stay,

to be able to hold again,

when what is real returns.