66.A Breath Between What Never Was

Was it air, or less than air—

a weight that fell through the cracks

of skin never touched, yet torn,

pressed against the fold of light

that bent not forward, not back, but inward,

where shadows blur the space that never knew itself?

A breath—no, not a breath,

but the shadow of a breath once held,

or lost, or taken before it could fall.

And you—were you there, or was it

only the ghost of you, pressed thin

beneath the sheets that forgot how to hold?

Who reaches? No—no one reaches.

Only the hands that are not hands,

grasping at the hollow of a silence

that once whispered of heat, but never burned.

And in that silence, what moved?

Not you, not me, but something

that never had a name, slipping into the cracks

where flesh might have once remembered itself.

I had you, didn't I? Or was it the thought of having,

pressed so hard it became nothing—

nothing but the weight of want

too heavy to move, too light to hold?

There, in the hollow of the sheets, you were not.

But something pressed—pressed harder than skin,

folded into a fire that forgot to light.

I called you once—no, I didn't.

But the air between us called,

whispering not of touch, but of the thing

before touch, the thing that never met

yet still trembled in the dark,

where breath fell through breath like silk

torn not from the body, but from the space

where bodies dissolve into the absence of flame.

What was taken? Nothing, or something less,

less than flesh, more than breath,

a name caught between fingers that never closed.

But were they fingers? Or was it only the shape

of something reaching for what was never there?

Did I have you, or did you fall into the curve

where silence bends beneath the weight

of skin that can never meet?

There—again—the sound of a word,

broken before it could break,

falling like ash in a room made of smoke.

And the hands—did they press?

Yes, they pressed—

but not on flesh, only the memory of flesh,

folded too deep in the shadows of sheets

that remembered nothing but the weight of air.

What was taken? Not you—no,

not quite you—but something like you,

twisted in the heat of a flame unlit,

burning only in the hollow of breath

held too long in the pause before want,

before the shape of want could curve into fire.

But did I touch? No—there was no touch,

only the echo of a touch forgotten

before fingers could form, before heat

could break through the walls of the room

that never held the shape of us.

I took you, didn't I? No, not you—

not quite, but the shadow of something

caught in the fold where heat meets air,

where skin becomes the ghost of itself,

and the body falls through its own flame.

Do you remember the breath?

The one that pressed against the night,

not soft, not hard, but too sharp to hold—

and in that breath, something broke,

but nothing was torn,

only the shape of what might have been skin,

what might have been heat, pressed against heat,

but never enough to burn, never enough to feel.

I wanted—no, I didn't—

but the wanting pressed, harder,

folding in on itself like a flame curling inward

against the wind that never came.

And you—were you there?

Or was it only the thought of you,

too thin to be seen, too heavy to be held?

The room sighed, didn't it?

Or was it only the air, folding again,

where the sheets fell, not in silk,

but in the sound of something breaking

before it could break,

before it could form the shape of what was never there.

I took you—didn't I?

But nothing took,

nothing broke,

and in the breaking, something still waited,

pressed thin beneath the sheets that sighed

but never held, never burned, never bent

into the weight of the body that never came.

And the silence—yes, the silence hummed,

but it was not sound, not light,

just the shape of what almost became heat,

almost pressed against skin,

but fell back,

always back, into the curve

where the flame waited,

but never lit.