The Space Where Hope Used to Be

I don't stand at the edge anymore. I step back. Distance has become an instinct, a habit that keeps me breathing.

Wanting something more feels dangerous- like striking a match inside my chest and pretending I won't feel the burn. Every maybe sounds like a warning.

Sometimes the though arrives quietly, more terrifying than panic: "What if I missed my chance?" What if the door already opened once and I was too busy surviving to notice?

I tell myself timing is generous that paths cross more than once, but my body remembers otherwise. It remembers warmth leaving without explanation.

I don't imagine forever anymore. I imagine staying intact. Nights without haunts and echos. Conversations that do not end in a disappearance.

There is something in me that still reaches and I stop it before the enemy learns my name.

I am not waiting

I am not brave

I am living carefully in the quiet where hope used to be.