I am in the indefinite place.
Caught between what is and what could be;
Or what is not and what will not be.
Between knowing and belonging.
Between A and B.
The corner–and there’s always one rounding somewhere ahead–isn’t just curve now, it’s in a soup of fog.
Not a kiln of refining fire, but the slow burn of a sauna and that makes you drip and wrings you out.
That wearies you until you can quench something fathoms deep.
Deeper than you know about.
A thirst unquantifiable.
In the indefinite place.