The sentence ended
before it became a sound.
Something stepped back
without moving.
Something stayed
without permission.
There was a rule
I did not write
but somehow obeyed.
Hands learned distance.
Time learned restraint.
Even hope
lowered its voice.
What was taken
was not a person,
but the possibility
of remaining.
Nothing shattered.
Nothing asked why.
The absence was polite,
and therefore unbearable.
I continue,
as things do...
with a shape missing
that cannot be pointed to.
This is not loss.
It is what happens
when something almost lives.
