serein

Somewhere, the room keeps breathing

even after we leave it.

A chair turned slightly

toward another,

light folding itself

into the seam of the floor.

It reaches out

and the air already remembers

the shape of your hand

where it rests

open.

What is

doesn’t vanish;

it learns another cadence,

slower,

softer at the edges.

We meet there sometimes,

not to rewrite the sky,

only to stand

where the quiet gathers.

And let the dream remain

gentle enough to hold—

present.