Myths tell of the hanged man as a fetus floating head-down,

Suspended in some liminal fluid

That fills the seamless space between the past and the future. 

We are becoming more ourselves with every breath.

I hear my heart mutter its name in my chest

And then pause, listening for yours. 

I do not have a promise for you or a ring to give you. 

I cannot even gather words up in a sheaf to leave in a vase on your table.

But I can place each of my hands in each of yours. 

I can wait for a seed to unfurl from the dark earth:

When it blooms, I will tell you what it is.