I’m sat in the window seat
Cool against my head,
vibrating softly with the hum of the tracks

Outside
snapshots of other people’s lives
A woman brushing crumbs from a table,
a child leaping over a puddle,
Grandmas saying goodbyes
Some sun,
some rain
Some days that feel like nights

The train moves forward,
always forward
No signs,
no names,
just a blur of motion and color.

Passengers shift around me,
luggage tucked under seats,
eyes full of somewhere
Their faces carry a quiet certainty,
as if they all agreed on the destination
before boarding

But I didn’t
I hold a pass stamped Nowhere.
No stop to look forward to
No reason for being here
except that I already am

I can’t get off
The train doesn’t stop for questions

There’s a tightness in my chest
that rises with each tunnel,
each bend,
each hollow station passed
And it’s not the motion that makes me feel sick
it’s the stillness underneath it
This strange dissonance
of moving so fast
yet going nowhere

I thought maybe the journey would reveal something
But the longer I sit,
the more the windows reflect back only myself
faint, flickering,
unmoved

Just headed
Nowhere
that never arrives.

I'm just a sparrow
longing for sky
and if I had wings
I could fly.

everyone is becoming
everything is becoming

the grass wakes up in pulses of green

trees stretch into themselves again

birds rehearse joy like a familiar script
and
I
a bare tree
not dead
just undecorated
too naked amongst the luscious
I sit in the middle of blooming

like a teenager who missed the cue

my skin doesn’t feel new


the light touches everything with tenderness

except me

skipping over
like I’m not ready

or not worth

or not

yet

maybe this is my season of pause
maybe
but maybe
I’m just behind
and it’s hard
watching the world dress itself in celebration
while I stand here

unbuttoned

unfinished

unbecoming

I would give you my slice of life, but
it’s like trying to hand you the horizon
a stretch of color that can never fit in your palm
You’d ask for details,
and I’d offer the taste of rain on the skin,
the way the world holds its breath before thunder,
a pause that fills your lungs like forgotten words.

There are mornings I wake up
and the air feels like an old letter,
creases worn smooth by time
I would give you that too,
but how do you hold a memory
that hasn’t yet figured out what it is?

You would want to know about the silence
between the seconds
the space where nothing happens
and everything happens
I’d give you that,
if I could explain how it feels
to sit with a half-made thought.

I can only offer fragments
a fleeting look in someone’s eyes,
the quiet rhythm of a clock
refusing to rush when you want it to
the way a day slips from morning to evening
I would give you my slice of life,
but all I have are these pieces,
and none of them are quite enough
quite complete
to make you feel what it’s like
to live inside them

Some days, it’s a hunger
a deep pull from the stomach,
not for food, not for water,
but for something unnamed,
something just out of reach.

It’s in the way the morning air feels electric,
like possibility itself,
how the sun spills over cracked sidewalks,
touching everything,
saying, Look. Be here. Want more.

It’s in the ache of laughter
that lasts too long,
in the way music grips the ribs
and shakes loose something tender.
It’s the way fingers linger
when hands almost meet.

And yes, some days, the hunger fades,
buried under the weight of routine,
but then
a scent, a sound, a sudden rush of memory
and there it is again,
the pull, the ache, the craving
for more of this,
this fragile, fleeting, impossible thing.

This life.