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on the border of another day
On the Border of Another Day
The day presses in— a slow tightening— and the air runs thin enough to split the skin at my mouth’s border. Sweat gathers at my jaw, dust touches the tongue, and the ground answers each step with the dry crunch of gravel. I pause— right at the line between what was and what waits.
Ahead, the light thins into distance, not a promise, just a shape I can walk toward. My lips sting as I breathe in, heat rising, yet a faint cool memory passes through— a scrap of shade, a single drop of rain that never quite lands. Still, I cross the line again, because staying on one side costs more than moving.
