I stand on the edge of wholeness,
a circle traced in trembling chalk,
its line unclosed, a breath away
from silence that might sing.
A fraction of infinity
still clings to me like dust—
so small it seems to vanish,
yet it lingers,
a seed of absence lodged in bone.
I am nearly the sum of myself,
a vessel filled
to the lip of knowing,
but the last drop
refuses to fall.
Completion is a horizon:
each step I take, it slides away,
always receding,
always there—
and I,
forever the numerator,
held against a ghost denominator
that cannot be erased.
Almost whole,
almost infinite,
almost home.
But never quite.