The Visible Moment

I stepped outside and my breath appeared,

white against the cold,

and I stood there,

watching it form and vanish,

form and vanish,

the rhythm so clear.

In summer, I'm invisible.

My breath dissolves into heat.

No one can see

that I'm alive.

But the cold insists.

The cold makes me real.

It makes me visible.

It proves that I'm here,

that I breathe,

that I matter enough

to be seen.

Then it disappears.

The breath is gone.

I'm invisible again.

But I know I was visible.

I know it was real.

The cold showed me

what the warmth hides—

that I exist,

that I take up space,

that I'm here,

even when I'm not visible,

even when I disappear.

I stood there longer than I needed to,

watching the proof

of myself

come and go,

come and go.