We existed only in passing signals, words that flickered and vanished before they could mean anything real. Yet somehow, the days began to shape themselves around your absence, the hours rearranging just to hold the possibility of you. It was only a month, but time stretched itself thin, softening at the edges, as if it too wanted to believe there was more.
When the nights grew still, I found you in the spaces between thought and sleep. I forced you into my dreams when the skies showed no stars. I watered flowers in gardens meant to reside stones etched with names and numbers, tending to things that were never meant to grow.
I moved oceans and placed them in cabinets beside my clothes. I folded small impossibilities into drawers, hid the evidence of what never quite happened. I shifted landscapes without meaning to, quiet rearrangements, as though something unseen had passed through and left the air different.
The room stays the same but is different. Still blue but with a different intensity. Light falls softly across the walls, carrying traces of a sound I can’t name. The days pass quietly now, but sometimes I still feel the faint pull, like a tide that never really left, only learned how to move beneath the surface.
It’s as if everything here was remade under a held breath, as though the universe had come near enough to almost stay.
And still, there are moments when the air shifts, when a shadow moves just right, and for an instant, it almost remembers.
Oct 14, 2025
Oct 14, 2025 at 9:19 PM UTC
We existed only in passing signals, words that flickered and vanished before they could mean anything real. Yet somehow, the days began to shape themselves around your absence, the hours rearranging just to hold the possibility of you. It was only a month, but time stretched itself thin, softening at the edges, as if it too wanted to believe there was more.
When the nights grew still, I found you in the spaces between thought and sleep. I forced you into my dreams when the skies showed no stars. I watered flowers in gardens meant to reside stones etched with names and numbers, tending to things that were never meant to grow.
I moved oceans and placed them in cabinets beside my clothes. I folded small impossibilities into drawers, hid the evidence of what never quite happened. I shifted landscapes without meaning to, quiet rearrangements, as though something unseen had passed through and left the air different.
The room stays the same but is different. Still blue but with a different intensity. Light falls softly across the walls, carrying traces of a sound I can’t name. The days pass quietly now, but sometimes I still feel the faint pull, like a tide that never really left, only learned how to move beneath the surface.
It’s as if everything here was remade under a held breath, as though the universe had come near enough to almost stay.
And still, there are moments when the air shifts, when a shadow moves just right, and for an instant, it almost remembers.