The Breath That Stays

It waits beneath the noise,

not knocking,

not begging,

only breathing,

as though the breath itself remembers me.

I called it nothing,

so it would not own me.

Yet it moved when I did not move,

moved my gaze toward light I could not find.

Some days it hummed,

a low, secret chord in my ribs.

I mistook it for hunger,

for ache,

for the shadow of a forgotten dream.

Other days it burned quietly,

like a storm rehearsing in the dark,

its thunder caught behind my tongue.

When I ran,

it followed,

a second pulse,

patient and unspent.

When I gave in,

the world rearranged itself:

the wind could respond,

the trees breathed,

and even my shadow

softened its edges.

Once, I tried to silence it.

The silence made me lonely.

Now, when I wake,

I wait for its voice,

my wordless yes

unfolding through my bones.

The breath ancient as dawn,

and just as near.