The Moth’s Velvet Whisper

The spiral coils beneath my feet,

a moth’s velvet wing brushing the air just so,

like the ghost of something I almost remember,

or maybe never quite had,

the shape of a life that refuses to fit back together,

like a forge that melts,

then cools too fast to hold form,

like the way I move forward,

midstep, eyes cast ahead but still tangled in what’s behind,

not quite where I was, not yet where I’m going,

just the space between the pieces,

a breath caught between worlds,

a sentence half-spoken, waiting to fall apart or come whole.

I carry this silence like a notebook,

its pages blank but heavy with possibility,

words I haven’t yet dared to write,

feelings too fragile to touch;

a quiet reflection on loss without a name,

a pause in the middle of a walk where time bends,

where the past whispers like a moth’s flutter,

soft as velvet, sharp as regret.

I’m forging myself anew here,

not with certainty, but with the tremor of not knowing,

the ache of leaving behind,

the stubborn hope that something else waits,

just beyond the spiral’s edge,

beyond this fragile moment suspended between breaths,

where life might finally find its shape,

or slip quietly away again.