The Dreamer's Pen

I lie beneath the weight of waiting,
the hush before the plunge,
where time bends,
where breath is borrowed,
where the body is a question with no answer.

The scalpel sings in silent promise,
a whispered hymn of hope and risk.
Will I wake to the sun’s golden mercy,
or slip into the quiet where names are forgotten?

I have traced the lines of my own fragility,
fingers ghosting over skin that may never
feel the same again,
or may never feel at all.

I do not fear pain.
Pain is proof of presence.
But the void,
the not knowing,
presses its cold lips against my throat.

And yet, I reach for morning.
For breath that does not falter.
For a body that still belongs to me.
For healing that does not ask for permission.