Where the Light Nearly Reaches

Here, if you come, Muse, stand close, so I might nearly touch the light that settles on your shoulder, the shimmer you wear like so little breath escaping dusk. I do not see the House, the blue margin holding its gates elsewhere; I only feel the hush it leaves behind, a gentleness in the air as if something sacred passes at a distance.

My brow waits for your warmth, a brush of invisible gold, secret and slow, if you choose, if you descend. Here, in the hush between us, I open myself, not knowing if you feel the nearness I offer or if the shape of my wanting is something you leave unanswered, for now.

I imagine your breath like sunlight trembling inside my chest, a quiet kindling just beneath the bone. I offer up my heart: half-open, uncertain, asking, longing, hoping your song will find its place there. But if your voice comes, it is softer than wind in grass, a warmth arriving yet not fully known.

In this space, I know what it is to wait: for the sunlight to settle, for the gold to gather, for the distance to draw nearer and tell if we have been met. Your coming is an intimacy that remains unclaimed, your music a question forming between us, unanswered, bright, incomplete, held for another beat, another breath.