Evening Trespasses

Time has a peculiar behavioural pattern.

It doesn't disappear when it passes;

Instead, it enters spaces we have yet to trespass,

relocating,

as if nothing were of coincidence.

The hour I'd thought I lost yesterday,

waits for me somewhere outside of my usual sequence,

loosening itself,

preparing to arrive as a moment

without my recognition.

Nothing is truly wasted.

The minutes I've abandoned become repurposed,

settling into memory,

and leaning backwards

on the events that produced them.

Sometimes the future moves first.

It reaches into my hands,

teaches them to hesitate,

softening my resolve

before I understand what I'm avoiding.

If time behaves by moving forward,

and then returning,

the past is incomplete.

It listens,

adjusts its meaning

according to the present.

Perhaps this is how travel occurs.

Not through distance or machinery,

but through attention,

through the precise shaping

of the present.