The Hour Between Knuckles

The turn does not announce itself.

It flickers—

a pulse where the map folds,

a throat clearing in a language I nearly remember.

I do not move.

Still, everything arranges

to push me.

Lights drag their sleeves across the glass.

A shadow takes inventory of exits.

Even the dust learns choreography,

spiraling toward a door

I hadn’t drawn.

I call this moment hunger,

though nothing is eaten.

I call it silence,

though it burns like machinery.

Somewhere,

the road rehearses its narrowing,

and my name begins to lean

without asking permission.

Not falling.

Not flying.

But the instant

a blade forgets

which side is edge