Today a song unlocked an old door,
and someone slipped through without a sound.
Not every memory asks to be sent away
some choose to linger,
like warm embers in the chest,
whispering one last name,
then learning the language of silence,
not out of absence,
but because time itself can be a form of care.
Thinking of someone every day,
letting their name fall into a prayer
like a leaf on still water,
feels pure, almost sacred,
until one day nostalgia
begins to rock the heart
like a boat with no shore
sweet, dizzying,
like dry wine that warms
and tips the soul.
And that’s when conscience weighs more than desire,
when tenderness folds its hands,
when love
instead of moving forward
learns to stay still,
to watch from afar, to protect
what it cannot touch
but which still lives.
A