I trace their outlines
carefully with my finger,
(these ghosts of what might be)
as they drift through hallowed halls
where conversations echo
and resolutions fade.
Tender promises hang
between empty spaces,
where hope waits.
lingering in the half-light,
like dust motes in sunbeams,
whispered intentions floating
too fragile to grasp, yet
too persistent to dismiss.
In this vacuum of uncertainty,
I breathe differently,
I exist in this suspension—
Perhaps it is not emptiness
nor absence, but possibility,
where hope does more than wait.
It hungers.
