To be liminal.

"Fragments of being"

23.06.2025

[FIRST FOG]

I light the shore for someone else's ship

never knowing how long I've stood in fog.

Rain seeps through the tear in my sweater

before I know my body is beneath it.

I drop advice like breadcrumbs,

not knowing

I am the one still starving.

A life that is

neither,

nor,

flickering at the edge of knowing.

We are someone in the mouths of others,

yet no one when we are alone with our first breath.

[FRACTURE]

This body feels like an autonomous vessel

whose assigned soul wanders eternally.

Thoughts arrive with echo's delay.

A tension between what the mirror shows

and what matter

ever meant to create.

There is a self I wake into,

but do not remember building.

We are someone,

yet no one.

A name assigned,

a skin inherited,

a dream mistaken for a fact.

I do not remember becoming.

Only arriving.

Still now,

the breath forgets its origin.

[LIMIT]

As the breath finds

a wise home to settle in,

I slip

into phantom sensations.

A trembling hand holding...

Milky eyes wandering...

The spine curls

not in pain

but as if

bowing

to some half-remembered exit.

My body fades,

but the lamp I left on

still warms the air

as if I've only just

stepped out.

Death isn't elsewhere.

Even the dust rises like breath

when sunlight moves through it.

[ECHO]

The room doesn't know if I've left.

My name

lies not as body

but as voice

echoed through time.

My skin,

once touched by water,

remains a remnant

of what felt like living.

A jacket

suspended in a hallway

with no one,

or everyone,

inhabiting it.

I am

a drawer

left ajar.

A note

half-torn.

The static

between songs.

The mirror remembers

what I forgot to recognize.

That forgetting

is just another way

of taking root.

Silence

has begun

to hum.

[RETURN]

I am

what remains

when breath forgets

the shape of lungs.

As I stop being,

I unremember myself.

I exist

where your mind

cannot reach.

We are not.

We are.

And still,

I return.

Not as a name nor echo,

but as soft ground

where something roots

without knowing

why.

I become

the hush beneath

wet leaves.

The soil that remembers

being touched.

I am

what I was

and what I've never been.