A Seed, Not a Poem

There is a girl inside me
cupping her hands
around a secret,
leaning close
to the woman I will become.

Her lips move,
soft as moth wings,
but the sound is still traveling
through the years between us.

I feel it before I hear it —
a warmth against my ribs,
a pulse beneath the quiet.

And I, here in the middle,
tilt my head toward the future
and the past at once,
waiting for the moment
their voices meet in my mouth.