The movement lingers in my limbs.
The smoke curls in invisible shapes around me.
Solitude folds into the corners of the room like a soft exhale.
Becoming hums beneath my skin, a pulse I cannot name — and do not need to.
This is not the end.
It is not even arrival.
It is the space between.
The place I carry with me when I step into the world, when I retreat back to myself.
Here, I hold everything that is unfinished, unsaid, unfolding.
Here, I trust that the pieces I am gathering are enough.
Here, I am whole — even in mid-motion, mid-breath, mid-knowing.
And maybe that is the spell I wanted to cast all along:
to let myself exist in the becoming, and call it home.
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