The Lines

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Some lines are not meant to divide,
but are a moment of hesitation before light falls.
Fingertips tremble out a contour, and the line
says softly in the wind: “This is you.”

The first line was a tear down the skin,
leaving a silent boundary. The second,
a beast’s hoofprint on unnamed earth,
remembered by those who cared.

Lines give shape to the world;
cut before stitching, accuse after binding.
On one side is belonging, on the other a forbidden zone—
one side is “us,” the other the forgotten “me.”

In places where boundary stones have faded,
lines are not marked by lime,
but drawn by the writer,
defined by the tilt of the pen.
What is allowed, what is taboo—
not decreed by stars or terrain,
but by the hand that writes the words.

Lime fades, paper yellows,
the boundary sinks in mud, but the line remains.
It curves past throats, hides in dreams,
suspends the shape of a heartbeat
with an unspoken “no.”

Some draw lines to stake territory,
some to offer prayer.
Most simply follow the line,
and in time forget to ask: What is the line?
Where did it even begin?

And that shade of gray between black and white—
not a sign of light to come,
but the afterheat of burned words,
still breathing slowly.

One day,
not in thunderclap, the line will
in a whisper unheard,
speak:

“Line, you no longer need it.”

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