The clock no longer ticks-
it breathes.
Each breath a reminder
that time does not pass,
it lingers.

The year carved itself
into the walls of your mind
like wind shapes stone-
not with force,
but with repetition.

You carry its silence
like a faded photograph,
creased from being opened too often,
touched by fingers
searching for what was lost.

There are places in you
still flooded from rains that fell
months ago.
The water never left-
it learned how to live there,
quiet,
beneath the surface.

Some days you speak in symbols:
a cracked cup,
a locked door,
a wilted plant
that tries
and tries again.

You've forgotten what untouched joy
feels like,
but you remember its shape-
like tracing a scar
and calling it a map.

Now,
you listen.
To echoes.
To shadows that stretch too far.
To the soft refusal of your own heart
to close completely.

The year is over,
they say.
But you know
time doesn't end.
It echoes.
And healing
is the slow art
of listening differently.