where you’ve been.
It just lifts itself
into the silence
of yes.
Somewhere, salt
marries sunlight.
You forget your middle name.
You forget the name
for forgetting.
A breeze catches
something deep in you—
a tether,
untying.
You are not waiting
for anything.
Not even this.
Laugh lines become
the map home.
And the world,
once so intent on being serious,
smells a bit like citrus
and doesn’t mind
if you hum.
