I walk on air. In a room with no wind.
There is only one of me and a thousand things I could be.
I am precisely none of those things.
Forms, what form will I take when I am essentially made of nothing?
I am none of this. I’m the paper before you write on it.
The canvas before you paint. Simple, I am flat.
I rearrange myself so I can fit into your sentences.
Between your words.
I am the thing the moment before breath.
The other thing, the non-breath.
There are ceilings with my name on them.
Bare Ceilings and white walls in this room that say my story.
The ceiling in this room has some cracks in it.
That is where I live, in the cracks.
You drew a picture of me with your hands.
They slipped and my image faded.
Remember the hieroglyphics on pyramid walls.
You wanted me to be something.
But I told you, I am all that is not.
No, I’m not a goddess, I just don’t look like one.