Interstitial Light

In the seam between waking and dream, a hummingbird catches its breath— wings stilled for one impossible instant where time learns to hesitate, and the world holds its form lightly.

The light here tastes of salt, of what we forgot in the forgetting, dust motes suspended in a shaft that cuts through no window, illuminates no room we've ever known.

I've been walking the edges— where grass forgets to remember green, where water refuses to choose between liquid and vapor and something that has no name in any language.

And here, in this nowhere of becoming, I find the courage to unmake myself, to let the boundaries dissolve like morning frost on glass— and perhaps, this is how transformation tastes.