You want to linger,
but not as mass.
More as a pause in the formula—
a bracket someone forgot to close.
What if sleep is the original version
of leaving?
What if time is a side effect?
You count nothing,
but something counts you:
a flicker,
a vital,
a maybe.
In the mirror,
no face.
Just velocity
slowing
to shape.
They call it medicine.
You call it theory—
an abstract on how light
bends around refusal.
You want to believe in matter
because it resists.
You want to believe in spirit
because it doesn’t.
And in the middle,
a hum.
Not healing,
not dying.
Just
a hum
that sounds like hope
if you tilt your head
the right way.
