Turn back the hands of time-
not to escape the present,
but to stand once more
in the warmth of a moment
before it turned to memory.

Let the air fill again
with the voices we forgot we missed,
the laughter unrecorded,
the silence we never understood
until they echoed in absence.

Turn back not for regret,
but for the gentle weight
of things unsaid,
for the way light once fell
on faces now distant.

To feel again
the tremble of becoming,
when everything was still possible
and we didn't yet know
what we would carry.

Time does not listen.
But we do-
to its traces,
to its whispers in the stillness,
to the way it softens everything
except the longing.