The body waits,
a rhythm held in the cage of breath,
the quiet pressure of blood
leaning against its own silence.
Muscles curl like paused tides,
joints suspended in the memory of motion,
fingertips touching nothing but the air’s patience.

The cosmos waits,
light crossing time too wide for memory,
stars balanced on the edge of their falling,
each orbit rehearsing its return.
Nebulae thicken and thin
in the slow exhale of galaxies,
dark matter shifting imperceptibly
beneath the weight of uncounted years.

Between bone and constellation
a single tension thrums:
we are the pause stretched thin,
the stillness before collapse,
the asking before reply.
We wait in the pull of gravity,
we wait in the tremor of pulse,
we wait in the hollow of our own existence
as the universe stretches,
leaning toward the shape of what is to come.

And so we wait,
threaded into heavens and flesh alike,
a trembling filament
in the endless weave,
where every heartbeat,
every orbit,
every flicker of starlight
is both pause and promise,
both stillness and onward motion,
matter and meaning suspended
in the slow loom of time.