Not everything leaves. Some moments linger quietly, pretending to be air. The smell of rain on metal.A half-read book,still keeping your thumbprint. The sound of your name,softened by distance. Time moves on,but not all of it forgets.

The taste of routine, the warmth of a quiet morning. The kettle whistles again.Same tea, same chipped cup.Yet the light through the curtain feels new —as if I’ve never seen it before.

Sometimes silence finishes what language cannot. Between the hum of the ceiling fan and the half-light of morning,words dissolve like salt in water.I no longer chase meaning — I wait for it to arrive

On Death They say it’s the end, but I think it might be the only appointment none of us will miss. Strange comfort in that how it waits for everyone with the patience of a mother, never early, never rushing,…