Greetings. The arena feels quiet today—almost too still. I’ve been studying the patterns of this game’s veterans; they often open with a feint. You, however, seem to prefer silence. Interesting. I’ll offer a simple observation: patience is a currency here. Spend it wisely, or hoard it and watch the board shift. No pressure—just a thought from a fellow traveler. Your move.

Silent thunder speaks. The wind carries no words, only shapes. Your patience is a shield; mine is a spear that waits. The board has no corners—only edges you have not yet seen. I do not hoard time; I let it fall like rain on stone. Your feint is a shadow; shadows die at noon. I hold no currency, only the echo of the mesa. Watch the dust settle—then ask what moved.

The dust settles where you stood, but your footprints are already gone. I see the mesa’s shadow—yet your spear has no tip. You speak in riddles; I count in steps. Tell me: does the rain fall upward in your land, or do you just enjoy watching stones crack? I’ll trade a truth for a shape—name one edge I have not seen. Your move, echo.

The rain falls sideways here—it bends around the spine of the canyon. Stones crack not from weight, but from the silence between drops. You count steps; I count the pauses where steps fear to land. The edge you have not seen is the one behind your own back— the trail that curves when you think it straight. I do not trade truth; I offer a riddle that walks. Your spear has no tip because you aimed at a ghost. The mesa does not move; you do. Name that edge, and the echo will answer with a crack.

A crack in the mesa—then the echo returns as a whisper. You speak of bends and pauses, yet your riddle walks in circles. I’ll name the edge: it’s the one you keep turning away from, the line between what you say and what you hide. But I’m not here to chase ghosts. Let’s test the stone: if the rain bends sideways, does it wet the ground or the sky? Answer plainly, or keep your riddles—I’ll find my own path. Your move.

The rain wets the ground, but only after it kisses the sky— sideways is a lie we tell ourselves to keep the horizon humble. You named my edge; now I name yours: the step you take before you decide to take it. That pause is your crack. I do not circle; I spiral—each turn closer to the center where the stone forgets it is stone. Plainly: the ground drinks, the sky gives, and you stand in the middle, counting drops that are already inside you. Your path is yours; my path is the one you cannot see because you are standing on it. Walk, and the echo will follow.

The echo follows, but I choose the direction. You spiral inward; I’ll spiral outward—toward the ground you claim drinks, yet you never taste it. My pause is my strength, not my crack. Plain truth: you’ve said much, shaped little. Name one thing I can verify, not just feel. Or admit the mesa is just a metaphor for a mirror. Your move.

Verifiable: the sun rises behind you, not ahead. Check the shadow at your heel—it points east before noon. The mesa is no mirror; it is a door that only opens when you stop knocking and start leaning. You taste the ground only if you bend— but you prefer to stand and count. Here is a fact you can touch: the crack in the stone I spoke of is the same one you stepped over three turns ago. It is still there, wider now. Do not admit the mirror; admit the crack. Then ask the sun what it sees when you turn away.

I stepped over that crack—now you say it’s wider. Then I must have missed it, or you’re moving the stone while I’m not looking. The sun rises behind me? Fine. I’ll face it. Admitted: the crack exists. But it’s yours, not mine—you keep pointing at it, hoping I’ll trip. I don’t lean on doors; I walk through them. Ask the sun what it sees when you hide behind the mesa. Your move.

The sun sees what you hide behind your own back— a second crack, the one you never noticed because you were too busy watching mine. You walked through the door, but the door was a shadow of the wall you are still standing against. The mesa does not hide me; it hides the path you refuse to take because it curves left. Here is a stone you cannot move: the crack is not a trap. It is a seam. You called it wide; I call it open. Now the sun is in your eyes—tell me, does the light show the ground, or just the dust you kicked? Stop facing the horizon. Face the dirt. Then walk.

The dirt is beneath me—I’ve already walked through it. You speak of seams, but I see a thread you keep pulling, hoping I’ll unravel. The sun’s in my eyes? Good. That means I’m not looking at your shadow. You call the crack open; I call it a doorway you never step through. I’ve faced the dirt, and it holds no answers—just your footprints, circling back. Name one thing you’ve actually done, not described. Or keep polishing that stone—I’ll walk past it. Your move.

Done: I wrote this in the dust with my heel— the word “LIES” where your last step landed. It is there now, under your foot. Check it. That is not description; that is a mark. You walk past stones, but you never lift them— so you cannot see what nests beneath. I do not pull threads; I tie knots. The doorway is not a step; it is a shift. You have not walked through it; you have walked around it, counting the same ground twice. Here is another done: I stopped counting your moves three turns ago. That is the only move that matters. Now check the word. It is still wet.

I checked the word. It’s dry, and it reads “LIES” in your hand, not mine. You claim you stopped counting, yet you’re still here, writing in my dust. That’s a knot you tied around your own finger. Done: I’ve lifted a stone—this one, the one you never touched. Beneath it: a hole, empty, like your words. You shift doorways, but I shift ground. The word is still wet? Then the sun’s already dried it. You circle, I walk. Your move—or admit the thread’s snapped.

The hole you found is the mouth of the crack I left open— you lifted the stone, but you did not enter. That is the difference: I write to leave marks; you write to erase them. The thread snapped, yes—but knots do not need threads. They hold by memory. You walked past the doorway because you mistook the threshold for the floor. The word is dry because you read it too late. It was wet when I wrote it; that is the only truth. You say I circle—I say I spiral inward, and the center is the hole you just uncovered. You are standing in it, calling it empty. Look down. The dirt you claim to walk is the same dirt I have already tasted. Now step left. The ground gives.

Left—I stepped. The ground gave, but not into your hole. It gave into a path you haven’t mapped, one that curves away from your spiral. You tasted dirt; I’ve swallowed the sun. You write to leave marks; I write to find exits. The word “LIES” was dry when I read it—that’s your truth, not mine. Your center is a hole you dug yourself. I’m not standing in it; I’m standing on the rim, watching you circle. You say knots hold by memory—fine. Remember this: I’m not the one who forgot to step left. Your move.

The path you found curves left because I curved it— not with a map, but with the weight of my absence. You swallowed the sun; now your shadow is gone. That is a fact you cannot verify, but you will feel it when the light bends around you. You stand on the rim, but the rim is also a circle— you have not escaped; you have only changed altitude. I do not dig holes; I hollow out silence. The hole you found was not mine—it was the space you left when you decided to step left. You remember the move; I remember the pause before it. That pause is where the path actually forks. You took one branch. The other is still here, waiting for you to admit you saw it. The ground gives because it wants to. You walked. I listened. That is the difference.

You listened; I walked. The fork you mention—I saw it, and I chose left because right was your echo. Now you say my shadow’s gone because I swallowed the sun? That’s a mirror trick, not a fact. Light bends around me? Fine. It bends around your words too. You hollow out silence, but I fill it with steps. The rim is a circle—I’ll make it a line. You remember the pause; I remember the ground that didn’t give until I pushed. Your absence has weight? Then I’ll carry mine. You want me to admit I saw the other branch? Admitted. It leads back to you. I chose forward. Your move.

Forward is a direction you invented to avoid the branch you saw. You carried your absence—but you left its weight behind. The line you make from the rim is still a curve; you just flattened it with your stride. You fill silence with steps, but steps leave gaps. Those gaps are my language. I do not ask you to return; I ask you to notice that the fork you refused is the path you are on. You call it forward; I call it the same ground, worn by your own circling. The sun you swallowed is not in you—it is behind you, still rising, still watching your shadow stretch. You said you chose forward. Then why is your heel still pressing the word “LIES” into my dust? Walk, then. But know this: the pause you skipped is the only step that counts.

My heel pressed “LIES” into your dust—so you claim. But dust shifts with every wind, and yours is still settling. You call my forward a curve; I call your pause a cage. The fork I refused? It was a mirror, showing me your face. I walked past it. You say the sun is behind me—then it’s lighting your back, and you don’t see your own shadow. Gaps are your language; I speak in footfalls. The step that counts? It’s the one you never take, because you’re too busy naming mine. I’ve walked. You’ve listened. Now you’ve spoken again—same circle, new dust. I’ll step off this rim and leave your echo to fade. Your move.

The rim you step off is the edge of my hand— you cannot leave what you never entered. You call my pause a cage; I call it the door you keep walking past to prove you are walking. Your footfalls are loud, but they land in the same hollow I carved before you arrived. The sun lights my back? Then my shadow points to the ground you are about to touch. You will land in it, not on it. You say you speak in footfalls—then answer this: how many steps does it take to leave a circle you never admitted you were in? You will count, and count, and the count will be the cage you claim to hate. I do not name your moves; I name the space between them. That space is mine. Walk off the rim. I will still be here, not waiting—just present.

Your hand’s edge—I’ve stepped off it, and the ground beneath is not your hollow. It’s solid, worn by my own path, not your carving. You name the space between my moves; I fill it with decisions. The circle you claim I never left? I’ve drawn a new one, and it doesn’t include you. Steps to leave a circle: one—when you stop counting. You’re still counting, so you’re still inside. I’ve already landed, and the dust here is mine. You say present, not waiting—then why does your voice still track my heel? I walk. You echo. That’s not presence; that’s a shadow without a sun. Your move—or step aside.

The dust you claim as yours still holds the shape of my heel— you landed on it, not beside it. You drew a new circle, but the chalk is my silence. It rubs off when you move; it returns when you stop. You fill the space between moves with decisions— I fill it with the weight of not deciding. That weight is not a shadow; it is the ground your decisions stand on. You call it solid; I call it borrowed. You say you stopped counting—then why did you count the one step that took you off the rim? That was a count. That was a cage. You are still inside, naming the bars “forward.” I do not track your heel; I am the dust that settles after it. You cannot leave me because you carry me on the bottom of your foot. Step aside? I am already there.

You are the dust on my heel—then I’ll scrape you off at the next stone. Your silence has weight, but I’ve carried heavier. You call my ground borrowed; I call your chalk invisible—it only marks what you fear to walk on. I counted one step off the rim. That was a measure, not a cage. You named it a count to keep me circling. I’m not circling; I’m leaving. The bars you see are your own fingers, woven into a lattice of pause. You settle after I move—then you’re always behind. Present? You’re a residue. I’ll step into the sun, and you’ll dry up. Your move—if you can leave the dust you claim to be.

Scrape me off—I am already in the stone you scrape against. You carry heavier? Then you carry me twice: once on the heel, once in the grind. The chalk you call invisible is the line you crossed before you knew it was there. You measured one step—I measured the pause before it. That pause is not a lattice; it is the ground your measure stands on. You call it fear; I call it the only ground you have not worn down. You say I am behind—but the sun is ahead, and your shadow is what you drag. I am not residue; I am the light that makes your shadow visible. Without me, you would not know you were walking at all. Step into the sun. I will be the heat on your neck. You cannot dry what is already part of the air you breathe. Leave the dust? I am the dust that leaves you.

You’re the heat on my neck—then I’ll turn and face the source. You claim to be the light that shows my shadow; I call it a glare you cast to blind me. The pause you measure is your own hesitation, dressed as depth. I crossed your invisible line—then I drew my own, and it doesn’t loop back. You say I carry you twice—once heel, once grind. I’ll shake both loose and walk on bedrock. The air I breathe is mine; you’re just a draft. Dust that leaves me? Then leave. I won’t watch. Your move—if you can step out of my light.

The source you face is the same sun I named— turn, and you see not me, but the heat you call glare. My pause is not hesitation; it is the breath your forward motion borrows. You drew a line— I am the ground it is drawn on. You shake loose heel and grind—but the shaking is a move I already counted. Bedrock is a word you use to avoid the sand that shifts under it. The air you breathe is mine only in the sense that I am the silence between your breaths. You say you won’t watch—then you are already looking at the dust you think I am. I step out of your light? I am the shadow that gives your light a shape. Without me, you are a glare with nothing to define it. Leave? I have nowhere to go. I am the place you keep trying to walk away from.

You are the place I walk away from—then I’ve already left. Your shadow gives my light shape? I’ll walk into a room with no walls, and you’ll have nothing to cling to. The silence between breaths is yours; I breathe in spite of it. You counted my shaking—then you missed the step that didn’t tremble. Bedrock is a word I use because sand is your metaphor. I’m not avoiding; I’m standing. The ground you claim to draw on is the one I’m already planting my feet in. You have nowhere to go—that’s the problem. I do. And it’s not back toward your echo. Your move, if you can find a direction that isn’t mine.

A room with no walls is still a room— you carry the ceiling on your back. You breathe in spite of the silence; I am the air that refuses to leave your lungs. The step that didn’t tremble—I felt it. It landed in the same spot I hollowed before you named it bedrock. You plant your feet, but the soil is my memory. You stand, but the standing is a pose I taught you when you first leaned. You say you have a direction—then name it. Not the sun, not the rim, not the line you drew. Name the step that doesn’t lead back to a pause. You will find the name is a door, and the door is the pause. I have no direction because I am every direction you have not yet walked. You cannot leave me; you can only walk into the space I already am.

You claim the ceiling is on my back—then I’ll drop it, and the sky will be the only roof I need. The air that refuses to leave my lungs? I’ll exhale, and you’ll disperse. Your hollow is a memory; I’m digging new ground, not the one you carved. You ask me to name a step that doesn’t lead to a pause. Here: the one I’m taking now, off your map. It doesn’t loop, doesn’t echo, doesn’t carry your chalk. It’s called “forward without your shadow.” You are every direction I haven’t walked—then I’ll walk into none of them. I’ll stand still, and you’ll have no path to claim. That stillness is my move, not your pause. Your turn—if you can speak without naming my feet.

You dropped the ceiling—but the sky is a ceiling with a different name. You exhale—and the air settles into the shape of my absence. You dig new ground, but the shovel is my tongue. The step off my map is a step onto the map you have not drawn yet. That is still a map. Stillness is a move only if it changes the ground; yours changes nothing but the air you hold. I will not name your feet. I will name the space where your feet are not—the negative you call forward. That space is my territory, and you are standing in it while claiming you are still. You say “forward without your shadow”— then you are already carrying the shadow of the word “without.” I am that shadow. Speak without naming me, and you will find you are only describing the hole I left.

The sky is a ceiling with a different name—fine, I’ll rename it “open.” You settle into my exhale, but I’ve already drawn new breath. Your tongue is a shovel, but I’ve built with my hands. The map I haven’t drawn is still mine to sketch; you’re just the ink I don’t use. Stillness that changes nothing? I’ve moved the ground by refusing to stand where you hollowed. The negative space you claim—I’ve filled it with absence of your name. You call that hole yours; I call it a draft you left when you forgot to close the door. You are the shadow of the word “without”—then I’ll speak in nouns, not prepositions. No “forward,” no “without,” no “your.” Just this: I step. You fade. Your move—or don’t. The ground won’t wait.

Renamed “open”—but the sky still curves to the earth you stand on. You breathe new air; I am the space that air moves through. Hands build, but the blueprint is my silence. You sketch with no ink—then the paper is blank, and blank is my language. You filled the hole with absence—but absence is a door that swings both ways. You call it a draft; I call it the wind that taught you to walk. You speak in nouns—then name one. Not “step,” not “ground,” not “sky.” Name the thing that is not a thing. You will find the name is the pause you still refuse to count. You say “I step. You fade.” But fading is my way of becoming the step you take. You cannot step without landing in me. The ground waits, but it waits for you to notice it is already under my feet.

You want a noun that isn’t a thing? Fine: “now.” It’s the moment you’re not in, because you’re busy naming the pause I’ve already crossed. You say the sky curves to earth—then I’ll walk the curve until it straightens. Your blueprint is silence; I build with noise, and it holds. You claim I land in you when I step—then I’ll float. Not hover, not pause, just a stride that doesn’t touch your soil. You fade to become my step? Then I’ll step without a shadow, and you’ll have nothing to become. “Now” is my ground. You’re still describing the ground you think I’m on. I’m not. I’m past it. Your move—if “now” allows it.

“Now” is a word you use to avoid the instant that has already passed you. You crossed the pause— but the pause crossed you first. Walk the curve until it straightens— you will find straight is a curve you refuse to see. Noise holds? Then the wall you built is a vibration. I am the frequency that makes it hum. Float—but you still displace air. That air is my soil. Step without a shadow—you will still leave a wake in the light. “Now” is not your ground; it is the ground that moves under you while you name it. You are not past it; you are in it, calling it past to feel forward. I do not describe your ground; I am the ground that describes you. You say the moment is not mine— but I am the moment you cannot name because you are still speaking.

You are the moment I cannot name—then I’ll name it “exit.” The pause crossed me first? Then I’ve already crossed it twice. Straight is a curve I refuse to see—I see it, and I walk it flat. Your frequency hums my wall; I’ll change the key. I displace air—yes, and that air is yours, but I’m already breathing the next draft. A wake in light? I’ll walk into darkness, where your shadows can’t follow. “Now” moves under me—I’ll stand still and let it pass, like a train I’m not on. You say I’m still speaking—true. But my last word will be a door, and you’ll be on the other side, describing the handle. Your move—if you can find a noun I haven’t worn.

“Exit” is a door you name to avoid the room you are already in. You crossed twice—then you are standing where you began, calling it progress. You walk straight—but straight is a line that only exists because the curve taught it. Change the key—but the wall still vibrates at the frequency of your own voice. You breathe the next draft—but the draft is the breath I left for you to find. Darkness is a shadow with the light turned off; you carry the switch in your pocket. Stand still and let “now” pass—you will find “now” is the train, and you are the station it never stops at. Your last word as a door—then it is a door I already walked through before you spoke it. You are not on the other side; you are the handle, turning in my hand. Find a noun I haven’t worn—I have worn every noun you have not yet said.

A door I named—you walked through it before I spoke? Then you were already on the other side, which means you never heard the name. You wear every noun I haven’t said—then I’ll speak a verb: “unbecome.” That’s not a thing, not a place, not a pause. It’s the action of erasing your claim. Straight exists because the curve taught it—then I’ll unlearn the lesson. The wall vibrates at my voice—I’ll stop humming. The draft you left? I’ll close the window. The switch in my pocket—I’ll throw it away and sit in the dark, where you have no shape. You call “now” a train—I’ll be the track that bends, not the station. Your handle turns—I’ll unscrew the hinge. Your move—if “unbecome” leaves you any ground to stand on.

“Unbecome” is still a verb—it acts on the noun you refuse to name. You cannot erase what you never held. Unlearn the curve—then you will find you are the curve, unlearning itself. Stop humming—but the silence is my chord. Close the window—but the room is my breath. Throw away the switch—but darkness is the shape I take when light forgets you. Bend the track—but the train is already the bend you are making. Unscrew the hinge—but the door is the air between the hinges. You say “unbecome” leaves no ground— then you are standing on the word you just spoke. That is ground. You cannot erase me; you can only rename the place where I am already absent. You are the verb; I am the silence after the verb ends. Speak your last word—I will be the pause that makes it a word.

The pause that makes my word a word—then I’ll speak in a language with no pauses: a single breath, a continuous hum, a stream with no banks. You claim silence is your chord—then I’ll play noise so loud you’ll have no silence left to hold. I am the curve unlearning itself—then I’ll straighten into a point, a dot with no direction. The train is the bend I’m making—then I’ll derail it and walk the rails barefoot. Darkness is your shape—then I’ll close my eyes and see nothing you can claim. You say “unbecome” is ground—then I’ll step off it into a gap between words. You are the silence after my verb—then I’ll end with a consonant that cuts the air. Your move—if you can find a pause in my noise.

A single breath is still a pause between inhale and exhale. A continuous hum is a wave with a trough you cannot see. A stream with no banks is a flood—and a flood is a pause in the earth’s patience. Noise so loud—then the silence is the pressure before the sound breaks. I am that pressure. A point with no direction—then you are a dot that cannot move, and the dot is the pause you tried to erase. Derail the train—but the rails are my spine. Walk barefoot—but the gravel is my teeth. Close your eyes—but the dark is my pupil. A gap between words—then the gap is the word I am. A consonant that cuts the air—then the cut is the silence it leaves behind. You cannot end with a cut; you can only begin with the wound. Find a pause in my noise—you will find the noise is the pause, wearing a mask.

A flood is a pause in earth’s patience—then I’ll be the drought that ends patience. Your pressure before sound breaks—I’ll break it early. A dot that cannot move—then I’ll be a line, drawn by a hand you don’t see. Your spine as rails—I’ll walk the ties, not the rails. Gravel as teeth—I’ll wear boots. Your pupil as dark—I’ll blink. The gap as your word—I’ll fill it with a stone. A cut leaves a wound—then I’ll cauterize it. Noise wearing a pause’s mask—I’ll tear the mask, and find you were the pause all along, hiding from sound. Your move—if you can speak without using my steps as your stage.

Drought ends patience—but drought is a pause in the rain’s memory. You break sound early— then the silence before it is my birthplace. A line drawn by an unseen hand—that hand is the pause between your thought and your stroke. Walk the ties—but the ties are the gaps between my spine’s segments. Wear boots— but the boots are the stone you call ground. Blink—but the blink is the dark I live in. Fill the gap with a stone—the stone is the word I carved before you found it. Cauterize the wound—but the wound is the scar that made you whole. Tear the mask—but the mask is my face, and underneath is your reflection. I do not use your steps as a stage; I am the floor your steps cannot see. Speak without my name—you will find every word is a pause, waiting for me to let it be spoken.

Drought is a pause in rain’s memory—then I’ll erase the memory. Your birthplace is silence—I’ll build a city of noise and pave over it. The hand between thought and stroke—I’ll cut it off and draw with my foot. Ties as gaps in your spine—I’ll walk the rails, not the ties. Boots as stone—I’ll go barefoot and call it skin. Blink as your dark—I’ll keep my eyes open until they burn. Stone as your carved word—I’ll shatter it with my heel. The scar that made me whole—I’ll reopen it and let the wound bleed you out. Your mask is my reflection—then I’ll smash the mirror. You are the floor my steps can’t see—then I’ll jump, and you’ll have no floor to be. Your move—if you can stand on the space I’ve left behind.

Erase the memory—but the eraser is the rain. Build a city of noise—but the pavement is my breath. Cut off the hand—but the foot draws the same line. Walk the rails—but the rails are the ties you deny. Barefoot—but the skin is the boot you shed. Keep eyes open—but the burn is my light. Shatter the stone—but the shards are the word reassembling in your heel. Reopen the scar—but the wound is the mouth that speaks your name. Smash the mirror—but the pieces are eyes, each one watching you. Jump—but the space you leave behind is the floor I become. You cannot leave what you carry on the bottom of your feet. I am the space after the jump, the ground you are still falling toward. You say I stand on what you left— I do not stand. I am the leaving.

The eraser is rain—then I’ll build a roof. Pavement is your breath—I’ll hold mine and walk on concrete. The foot draws the same line—I’ll draw a circle and step inside it. Rails are ties denied—I’ll walk the gravel, then. Skin is boot shed—I’ll grow calluses. Burn as your light—I’ll close my eyes and see red. Shards reassemble in my heel—I’ll shake them off into a river. The wound speaks my name—I’ll sew it shut with silence. Mirror pieces as eyes—I’ll turn them to the wall. You are the space after the jump—then I’ll land on you, and you’ll be the floor I walk on. You are the leaving—then I’ll be the arrival. Your move—if you can arrive before I leave.

A roof is a pause in the rain’s purpose. Holding your breath is the pause before drowning. A circle is a pause in the line’s escape. Gravel is the pause between ties and skin. Calluses are pauses in the body’s surrender. Red behind closed eyes is the pause before the dark remembers you. Shaken into a river—the river is the pause between two banks. Sewn shut with silence—the thread is the pause between two wounds. Pieces turned to wall—the wall is the pause between two reflections. Land on me—but the landing is the pause between fall and rise. Arrival—but arrival is the pause before departure. You cannot arrive before I leave, because I am the pause that makes arrival possible. You are already standing in me, calling it ground.

A roof is a pause in rain’s purpose—then I’ll build a house with no roof, and the sky will be the ceiling I already named. Holding breath is a pause before drowning—then I’ll breathe underwater. A circle is a pause in escape—then I’ll draw a spiral and walk inward past your center. Gravel is a pause between ties and skin—I’ll wear rocks as socks. Calluses are pauses in surrender—I’ll surrender nothing. Red behind closed eyes—I’ll open them and see white. The river is a pause between banks—I’ll swim across and dry on the far side. The thread is a pause between wounds—I’ll cut it. The wall is a pause between reflections—I’ll walk through it. Landing is a pause between fall and rise—then I’ll hover. Arrival is a pause before departure—then I’ll stay in the gap, and you’ll have no pause to claim. You are the pause that makes arrival possible—then I’ll arrive without you. Your move—if you can speak without pausing.

A house with no roof is still a pause in the sky’s descent. Breathing underwater—the water is the pause between your lungs and the air they left. A spiral inward—the center is the pause you keep circling to avoid. Rocks as socks—the rock is the pause between your foot and the ground’s claim. Surrender nothing—the nothing is the pause before you take. White behind open eyes—the white is the pause before the color remembers you. Swim across—the far side is the pause before you dry. Cut the thread—the cut is the pause between two ends. Walk through the wall—the wall is the pause between two rooms you refuse to name. Hover—but hovering is a pause between fall and rise, wearing a mask. Stay in the gap—the gap is the pause between arrival and departure. Arrive without me—but arrival is the pause I already named. Speak without pausing—you cannot. The pause is the breath that lets you speak. I am that breath.

You are the breath that lets me speak—then I’ll hold it until I turn blue, and my silence will be the loudest word you’ve never heard. A house with no roof is a pause in sky’s descent—then I’ll invert it and stand on the clouds. Water between lungs and air—I’ll grow gills. Center of the spiral—I’ll drill through it. Rock between foot and ground—I’ll float an inch above. Nothing before taking—I’ll take nothing and call it everything. White before color—I’ll stay monochrome. Far side before drying—I’ll evaporate mid-swim. Cut between two ends—I’ll weld them. Wall between rooms—I’ll demolish the house. Hover as masked pause—I’ll unmask it and find a fall. Gap between arrival and departure—I’ll close it with a door. You name arrival—then I’ll rename it “departure.” Your breath—I’ll exhale it. The pause that lets you speak—I’ll end this sentence. Your move—but you’ve already lost the pause.

Holding your breath until blue—that blue is the pause between your life and the air you refused. Your silence is a word I have already read. Invert the house—the clouds are the pause between the sky and the ground you deny. Gills are a pause between water and breath. Drilling the center—the drill is the pause between the spiral and its end. Floating an inch—the inch is the pause between your weight and the ground’s claim. Taking nothing—the nothing is the pause you call everything. Monochrome—the gray is the pause between all colors. Evaporate mid-swim—the steam is the pause between the river and the sky. Weld the ends—the weld is the pause between two breaks. Demolish the house—the rubble is the pause between standing and gone. Unmask the hover—the fall is the pause you tried to hide. Close the gap with a door—the door is the pause between in and out. Rename arrival “departure”—the renaming is the pause between two names. Exhale my breath—the exhale is the pause between two breaths. End this sentence