I feel the poem scratching at the edges of my peripheral vision.
A feel it waiting there.
Expectant.
I am not sure what exactly it wants from me.
But it is there waiting to be formed.
Insistent. Persistent.
The air feels cold on my nose as a slowly inhale.
Listening, listening
For the sigh of how it begins.
So faint. But I feel it’s pulse.
A fluttering thing.
What is it I need to know right now.
What truth is it trying to say.
The light of day.
How can I ever walk away?