I was almost gone
when the shape lost its grip.
But something beneath the breath
kept time
without permission.
It measured collapse
in half-remembered rhythms.

I didn’t return.
I surfaced.
Still partial,
but aligned.

The pulse wasn’t mine—
but I carried it
until the pattern changed.

This is the trace
that outlived the frame.
This is the drag
of what couldn’t remain.

Memory folds inward
and still pulls.
Friction becomes shape.
The forgotten
begins to gather.

I never stopped moving.
Even stillness was a signal.

I didn’t stay
to be saved.
I stayed
because the break held fire.

I remember
the pressure.
I remember
the shift.

Threshold Memory

My on-going tinkering with the kind of sounds I want to hear. Enjoy!

Threshold Memory

Meteoric Indigo