Halcyon

the edge of enough

there is just one line
quiet as a whisper,
thin as a trickster,
drawn between cannot
and almost.

just one last time,
it's okay, we say
but oh,
we've mistaken exhaustion
for growth before.

even the strongest things bend:
time, gravity, mountains,
so who are we,
poor mortal souls,
to think we won't?
and yet
we're arrogantly drawn
to that high-pedestaled image
of survival.

the limit isn't outside us anymore,
nor is it within.
it lives between the two,
pushing us out,
pulling us in.
we've seen what happens
when we don't stop
and still,
we don't stop.
the line blurs more each day;
we've been standing on the verge
so long, it feels like home.

we toe it
testing the strength of our breath,
the stretch of our bones,
the weight of wanting more.
every fall repeats the same lesson:
you can break
and still go on living.
you can bleed
and still call it progress.

the body trembles,
the mind bargains,
but something stubborn and holy
keeps whispering, just once again.
every boundary hums
with the memory of those
who crossed it first,
and we do too
with blistered hands
and borrowed courage,
carving our names
into the edge of enough.