It comes without footsteps,
soft as dust in sunlight,
but heavy in the chest.

A glance,
a scent,
a sentence overheard-
and suddenly,
you are no longer here,
but somewhere back
where things were unfinished.

The past doesn't ask permission.
It folds itself into the present
like a shadow that doesn't need light.

You walk forward,
but it walks too,
just behind,
close enough to remind,
but never close enough to hold.

Still,
you keep going.
Because even if it catches up,
it no longer leads.