There is a breath
that does not return to you—
not in the same shape.
It leaves
as mist,
comes back
a question.
Somewhere,
a curtain folds without wind.
You do not panic.
You practice
being a passenger.
The hallway tilts.
Names untether.
You’re not lost—
only momentarily
unlabeled.
There is a place
between the counting
and the gone—
sleep’s older cousin.
That’s where
the Gurney Moment lives.
It hums beneath the wheels.
You feel it like gravity,
not fall—
but surrender.
You are not outside it.
You never were.
Even stillness
has a center
that turns
