when we thought ourselves lost

So stain—
as marks that remain longer than intent,
and hesitation pressed into the grain.

Second guess,
doubt’s small fracture widening,
as though the Voice were drowned,
as though we mistook the silence
for absence.

But sustain is not the clean note held—
it is the rough edge,
the falter carried forward,
the scar that steadies the hand.

And then—
awareness returns:
the Voice was never gone,
but braided in the ordinary speech
of those set beside us,
their words a lantern,
their presence the unlooked-for guide.  

So stain becomes sustain:
not erasure,
but the keeping of every mark,
attesting of our having been led
even when we thought ourselves lost.

.