I wish I were the poem, not the hand that weaves it. I want to be the pause, not the reason? it pauses.

Could I be the silence
between the words that form,
the place where meaning? lingers,
without needing to take flight.

Can I be the curve of a line,
the soft flow of ink?
The feeling that's captured,
but never quite can think?

Maybe I could be the air,
that moves without a sound-
the depth beneath the surface,
where everything is found.

To be the whisper of thought,
not the voice? that calls it out,
the quiet hum of an idea,
without a need? to shout.

Could I be the moment,
before the words arrive,
the space where they begin,
but never need to thrive?