In the quiet of morning,
light bends through the window
as if it remembers
how it once touched your face.

The air carries a scent
that does not belong to today,
warm bread,
salt from the sea,
laughter carried in the folds of a summer shirt.

I reach for them,
but they are made of mist.
The more I hold,
the more they pass through my hands.

Still,
I keep the window open.