The Space Between Heartbeats

There is a moment each of us knows without naming it—the brief suspension when the heart gathers itself between contractions, when blood hangs weightless in the veins, and the body forgets to be heavy.

In that pause, the world thins. A shadow waits. A word dissolves before it finds your lips. You are made of the same fabric as starlight here, where nothing yet moves.

Then the pulse returns like an echo finding its canyon, like water remembering it must fall. The body rushes forward dragging its cargo of memory, of want, of the next breath already taken.

But you glimpsed it—that cathedral built of nothing and stillness, where every creature rests at the threshold between existence and the vast, patient dark.