Turning. Stay.

A fissure of light breaks

across the room—

Crystals rise like a congregation

summoned without a deity.

They hover and shift,

each speck

the letters of your name.

Unspoken.

Turning.

Time has yet to be confined.

The whole room

oscillates

between dance and memory.

You reach out—

not to touch,

but to see if your hand

still exists.

It doesn’t.

Only the light,

and the things that shimmer in it,

half-born,

unclaimed,

nearly holy.

But not quite.

Tomorrow

you will decide.

For now

you will stay.

Caught —

Turning

between

fragments of certainty—

like dust.

Or truth.

Or the nothing in between.