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.