Hanging in the air...

I tread like a cat on a still, summer afternoon, afraid I might awaken it from its slumber. You tiptoe around it on bare toes, looking at it through the corners of your eyes, and then looking away, until it ceases to exist anymore...

It hangs in the air, like a sentence half spoken. And we leave it that way, with our half spoken sentences. I think we both like the suspense...and the imagination that works in the absence of knowing. We could pluck it out of the air, either you or me, and pin it to the ground so we'd know what it is, but I suppose we are, yet, unwilling to give up the imagining of all that can be, in exchange for knowing all that cannot.