Suspended in Violet

Lingering in the swirling purple dust,
where light lifts loose and gleaming from the dark,
each speck a small ignited breath, adrift,
I find myself caught, held without a hand,
stopped in the inbetween of what has been
and what has not arrived to claim its name.

There is no floor here, only hush and hue,
a slow cathedral built of amethyst,
its ceiling made of particles that turn
like galaxies too tired to become.
I am neither falling nor at rest,
but hung upon the pause the heart makes room for,
that trembling comma in the sentence of a life.

The dust does not disperse. It waits with me.
It gilds the edges of my open hands,
these hands that reach and never close on more
than luminous suggestion, than the ghost
of touch, the almost of an almost-yes.

And is this longing, then, this violet weight,
this being suspended in the space between
the wanting and the having of a thing?
I do not know. I only know I stay,
lit softly by the drift of what I miss,
breathing the purple air that holds me still,
in love with the threshold, unwilling to cross,
suspended in the dust that is my longing.