My Own Moments

I speak in borrowed rhythms—
tongues that dress my thoughts in foreign velvet.
Velvet that muffles, rather than wraps,
softening the edges of truths I meant to say.

I am fluent in silence.
Between one language and the next,
I am a bridge without railings—
crossed by many, understood by none.

Magnetic, but only to the few
who dare open the door to the in-between.

They find me not in speech,
but in the pause before I answer—
where memory slips through cracks
and the unspoken carries more truth than sound.
There, beneath the veneer of fluency,
is a trembling archive of the things I almost said.

I am a poem translated too many times,
the original meaning fading with each version.
Yet some read between the lines,
tracing ghosts of syllables,
and know me anyway.

So I stay here—
between syllables and shadows,
not seeking fluency
but recognition.

My soul is not lost,
just layered—
waiting for someone
to listen with more than ears.