The Unfinished Line #1 #BlogchatterHalfMarathon @Blogchatter

You trace the edge of dawn with your fingertips,  
a tentative brushstroke on the wrapping sky,  
aching for something unseen—  
a whisper caught between breath and silence.  

In the quiet, I listen—  
to the murmurs beneath the wind,  
to the heartbeat of the unseen,  
and wonder if you hear it too—  
that faint pulse that drives the universe,  
the rhythm humming through bones, through clouds, through time.  

You speak in shadows,  
a language of light and dark,  
the way a river remembers its flow,  
always seeking the ocean, always returning,  
yet never quite arriving.  

And I, lost in the maze of my own speech,  
try to mirror your quiet desperation,  
write in the spaces between words,  
the pauses that swell with meaning  
and collapse—  
like a breath held too long.  

Remember how the world feels small—  
a grain of sand, a single breath—  
but in the shadow of your doubt,  
I find a universe expanding inside me,  
each thought a star flickering on the horizon.  

You wonder if the words will come,  
if the ink will spill or stay dry—  
the emptiness that beckons,  
a canyon deep and wide,  
yet pregnant with unspoken promises.  

Hold on, I whisper—  
to the fading light, to the night’s gentle weight—  
for it is in the waiting that the soul writes itself,  
not with perfection, but with longing,  
with the crackle of static on a dry wire,  
the hum of a distant train,  
a lullaby sung in a language only stars understand.  

The story begins with you, wandering—  
a fragment of memory, a flicker in the corner of the eye—  
a question unasked, a poem unwritten,  
waiting to be born from the dusk.  

And I, the voice that echoes in the half-light,  
try to catch your shadow,  
to hold the fragment still,  
but the edges blur and shift—  
an unraveling thread of consciousness,  
a whisper of what was, what is, what will be.  

In the chamber of my chest,  
a quiet revolution—  
a slow, deliberate awakening—  
begins to unfold,  
words gathering like a storm within me.  

And then, in that fleeting instant—  
when the breath is no longer mine to take,  
when the silence becomes a melody—  
your ghost appears,  
a figure of longing and hope,  
a flicker of truth etched in the stories I never told.  

The universe listens—  
a silent witness to the birth of wonder,  
the weaving of chaos into form,  
the dance of shadow and light,  
the slow crawl to clarity.  

And just as the words cascade—  
a river breaking its banks—  
you turn and smile,  
a quiet acknowledgment of the unseen,  
the unspoken,  
the unending journey.  

And that is when,  
in the deep quiet of the dawn,  
the story finally writes itself—  
and that’s when I knew I was writing again.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.