Am I a riddle
hidden in half-moments,
a secret curled beneath the ink,
too quiet, too soft to echo,
a whisper lost in stormlight?
Or am I a ripple
unfolding through silence,
a breath that stirs the surface,
barely seen but almost felt,
a faint trace in still water?
Maybe I am both,
a paper cut never noticed,
a scar that prickles at full moon.
Am I a question
that breathes in someone else’s mouth?
An answer
that can never be found?
reflections of an unquiet mind 