Pressure in the Pause

The hug lingers—two breaths, maybe three—

a slow squeeze through the threadbare jacket.

The fingers press into fabric worn thin,

a silent pulse breaking open something tight.

Not warmth, not comfort exactly,

but a weight that bends the air between us.

A hand holding on too long, like it’s afraid

it might lose what’s barely caught.

In that stretch, something shifts,

a fragile knot undone,

too quick to be trust, too slow to be safe,

hovering on the edge of something real.