Pastel Creatures Between Worlds

Soft-focus spirits in the hallway light—
glassy skin with a neon seam.
They don’t scare me. They hover close,
tilting their heads like a question-mark
made of steam.

One of them mouths the bulb’s warm buzz,
and the light goes gentler.
Another pats the air into layers,
as if saying: Here. Take less at once.
Their chirps are tiny zipper-sounds,
opening and closing pockets in the hush.

I don’t name what’s happening anymore.
I watch.

They leave little powdery prints—
pastel dust that only shows
when you look sideways.
They trade it like coins between palms,
toll-tokens for the doorway
no one else can see.

A thin card slides from a creature’s sleeve:
translucent, edged in shimmer,
letters rearranging themselves
as my breath steadies.
Not instructions—translation:
how to turn too much into enough
without tearing anything.

—chirp-chirp. A seam-spark. The air shifts—

I’m not lost. I’m between worlds,
drifting toward the right time-line.
Pastel creatures keep me company
while I stitch my heart in rhyme.

I’m not late. I’m becoming
in the haze, in the glow—
their neon seams keep time beside me,
softly insisting: Move slow.

They blink like commas—
pause, pause—
in a sentence I can’t rush.
Every breath becomes a doorway
they hold open with their small bright hands.
Every step lands velvet,
like my soles are learning mercy.

Bookmarks curl at the edges of the air,
friendly ribbons with no pull.
A creature hooks one over my wrist,
not as a leash—
as a reminder: return here
when the corridor gets loud.

The opal on my fingertips isn’t peace yet—
it’s proof.
A cool sheen, like condensation on a glass,
like a page that’s been touched
and didn’t flinch.

The translation card turns over in my palm.
On the back: a simple slider—
a little line you can move
from NOW to NOT YET.
I shift it a thumb’s-width.
The room obeys.

—breakdown, close enough to hear the dust—

Hold my hand, little light thing.
Show me how to soften without vanishing.
Teach me joy with no receipt.
Teach me space with no guard.

Teach me the pause before the yes—
the clean, quiet second
where I can feel my own answer
arrive.

—wide lift—

I’m not lost. I’m between worlds,
drifting toward the right time-line.
Pastel creatures keep me company
while I stitch my heart in rhyme.

I’m not late. I’m becoming
in the haze, in the glow—
and when the hallway bulb flickers once,
their seams spark gently,
and the translation card goes warm
against my skin.

It’s okay— move slow.
It’s okay— move slow.