Becoming

I stand at the edge of what was,
hands full of undone knots,
the echoes of who I’ve been
still whispering my old name.

The past drips from my fingers—
softly, like rain rinsing dust
from forgotten windows.
I let it fall.

There’s a kind of mercy in endings,
in the quiet burial of former selves.
Each goodbye fades into the dawn,
and I breathe in the promise of light.

I am not leaving—I am returning.
To the space within me that always knew
how to rise, how to listen,
how to belong to the becoming.

So I gather what’s left with grace:
unfinished dreams, forgiven wounds,
the small courage of still continuing—
and step across the threshold,
awake, unweighted, whole.