I Am The Interval

No vessel, no floor
Only a question folding inward

I place one thought at the edge of the room
It is here
Then the room is gone

A particle keeps my unfinished name
Between two distances
Between two doors

Do not ask where I am
The answer changes when you look

I am the interval
The distance before the fall
A dark point opening
Where every possible self calls

I am the interval
Not nowhere, not home
Held in the quiet mathematics
Of a universe unknown

Two cold lights cross without touching
Their histories knot beneath the skin
I hear tomorrow in the afterimage
I hear the beginning trying to begin

My body thins to probability
My voice divides, then disappears
One half remains beside you
One half waits beyond the years

Measure me
And I become a wound
Name me
And I leave the room

I am the interval
The distance before the fall
A dark point opening
Where every possible self calls

I am the interval
Not nowhere, not home
Held in the quiet mathematics
Of a universe unknown

No vessel, no floor
No final shape to carry
I am still becoming
In the space between the answers