I keep a silent clock,
one that will not mark the hours
with its bright little hammers,
one that will not carve my days
into tick and toc,
into there goes another,
into don’t look away now.
I keep it close
because the loud ones boast.
They swagger with their counting,
each beat a tiny prophecy,
each click a reminder
that stories have spines
and spines have ends.
But this quiet one,
this gentle, non‑ticking witness to my hours,
lets me breathe inside my chapters.
It holds the minutes softly,
as if time were a shawl
laid over my shoulders
rather than a drum
driving me forward.
Still, even in silence,
I know the truth:
I am moving.
I am writing.
I am being written.
And perhaps that is enough,
to walk my story
without the metronome of endings,
to let the hush between moments
be the place where I live,
and not the place
where I fear I’ll stop.