Trapeze

They call it flight, but I call it the space
between two heartbeats, a held-breath grace—
the half-second my chest forgets its name,
too busy trusting the next beat's claim.

No net beneath this kind of trust,
just open hands and falling dust,
a bar let go before it's found,
a hush between the up and down.

I am not falling, not quite flight—
I'm just a breath suspended right
between two beats, between two hands,
waiting on a catch that understands.