There are things
that cannot be written down,
only kept.

A glance,
a tremble in the air,
a word never spoken
yet somehow understood.

Between what was
and what will be,
time folds itself
like fabric around memory.

Not straight,
not linear-
but drifting,
soft,
full of silences that carry
more than meaning.

There,
in what no one sees,
we go on
without hurry,
without weight.