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OrlandoFurioso
45
Poems2
Words69
By the edge of the Tagus, the river passes unhurried, as if it knew its end. I sit by the window. The waters meet and carry me away. Time is not chased. It flows. Days, minutes on an unbroken thread. Each thing at its own rhythm. The world continues. I learn not to interrupt. Without urgency. Without fear. I observe what yields, what remains. And then, almost without sound, we change. I light a cigarette. The flame hesitates. So do I.
0
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 9:33 AM UTC
The Flame Hesitates
By the edge of the Tagus, the river passes unhurried, as if it knew its end. I sit by the window. The waters meet and carry me away. Time is not chased. It flows. Days, minutes on an unbroken thread. Each thing at its own rhythm. The world continues. I learn not to interrupt. Without urgency. Without fear. I observe what yields, what remains. And then, almost without sound, we change. I light a cigarette. The flame hesitates. So do I.
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26
There are dense days, when a second weighs like a stone in your pocket. And there are liquid days, that slip away without memory. Time is not linear. It settles. It remains in the things we have touched, in what we have lost, in what we almost were. And, slowly, without asking permission, it becomes us.
0
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 9:17 AM UTC
A Stone in the Pocket
There are dense days, when a second weighs like a stone in your pocket. And there are liquid days, that slip away without memory. Time is not linear. It settles. It remains in the things we have touched, in what we have lost, in what we almost were. And, slowly, without asking permission, it becomes us.
Continue reading...
15