The Space Between

Am I the rainbow or the rain that makes it?
You ask, but it’s me asking, too.
Do I paint the sky with color,
or am I the prism that bends the light?

One voice says: You are a song played in a minor key,

notes soft and lingering like a secret

no one knows how to ask about.

The other voice hums: No, you are the melody,

rising and falling,

a rhythm that sweeps through the room,

distracting enough to mask the quiet.

Some days, I am the quiet.

Other days, I am the sound.

But most days, I can’t tell the difference.

Do I hold my joy like a lantern,

its light spilling softly in the dark,

flickering but steady,

offering warmth even in quiet moments?

Or is it my sadness that I carry like a stone,
smooth and cool, heavy only when I forget
how to hold it? 

One voice whispers: You are the ocean—
restless, endless, swallowing the horizon.
The other voice counters: No, you are the shore—
grounded, though you crumble with each wave.
Together, they murmur: You are both,
and you are neither.

Am I sadness borrowing joy’s clothes,
or joy trying on sadness like a shadow?
I hold the question between us like a mirror,
but it fogs when I breathe.
I cannot see my face.

And maybe that’s the answer—

not the question, not the reflection.

Not the rainbow, not the rain.

But the space where they meet,

the fleeting shimmer in the mist,

something both and neither,

an absence that holds everything.