I don’t walk straight. I stammer through spirals, a sidewind of signal and skin. A thought that forgets its arrival but knows where it’s been. My knowing comes in textures; grit-light and salt-soft, the buckle of breath when the world turns off. There’s a click in the ceiling, a flicker, a hum. My spine hears it all before the sound comes. I don’t move to arrive, I move to begin. No chart can describe the rhythm I’m in. I’m the pause in the pattern, the break in the grid, what hums in the corner of things that you hid. You map by method, I drift by design. You chase what is stable, I echo the line. I speak in glass, cutting shape from shimmer. And thread not to mend, to tangle, to glimmer. You ask what I’m doing, I say: listening in for the match in the bottle that burns from within. I don’t move to arrive, I move to begin. No name ever carved the shape of my skin. I’m the glitch in the system, the ghost in the seam; what haunts the intention just shy of the dream. Call it drift, call it clash, I’m the flicker, the flash. A whisper of warning where nothing went wrong. I’m not built to resolve I unravel the song. Not lost just drawn to what doesn’t belong. I don’t move to arrive, I move to begin. I don’t wear a name, I live in the wind. I’m the pause in the pattern, the hush in the din, the soft, unlit corner where truths begin.
