The Becoming

Salt hangs in the breath,
and the ground glimmers—
dusted in colors the sky won’t name.

Hair lifts like smoke,
brushed back by something
not wind,
but presence.

Oil on skin,
ritual markings
offered to a distant,
burning god.

The glass hums—
the kind that bends light wrong.
Fabric clings like memory,
shifting,
never landing.

Hollow stomachs sing soft prayers.
Stillness mistaken for ease.
A frozen ballet
of should and should not.

The watchers—
are they real?
Eyes?
Echoes?
You blink,
and they vanish.
Were they ever there?

A quiet unraveling.
Cracks in the glaze.
Cravings tucked into corners,
shadows sewn shut.

You forget when it began.
The rules, the posture,
the silence.

Will the skin ever soften into belonging?
What shape does comfort take
when you've only worn armor?

Perfection dissolves
like sugar in warm rain.
Too sweet.
Too fleeting.
Too false.

Beneath the surface—
a pulse,
a bloom in the dark,
a name not yet spoken.

You ask—
not aloud,
but in the language of ache:

Who?

This is the becoming—
a place without form.
Not a mirror,
but a shimmer.

A warmth
that forgets to leave.

The grip loosens.
The light lingers.
The silence begins to hum
your own forgotten tune.

You do not arrive.
You are unwrapped.
Unwritten.

Not perfect.
Not flawless.

But present,
and pulsing,
and here.

That is enough.