The Stillness

Time didn’t ask—

it just moved,

soft-footed through the hallways of my chest,

brushing past unopened doors,

hands tucked into the pockets

of some cosmic jacket.

I kept thinking there’d be a sign,

a marked day when ache

turns to dust,

when mornings stop dragging your name

across my window.

But healing…

it’s not a clean line.

It’s moss growing

where fire once lived,

a kind of quiet reclaiming

without permission.

And then—

right there, mid-step—

the change.

Not dramatic.

Not a thunderclap or a phoenix.

Just a moment:

the coffee went cold

and I didn’t mind.

Your song played and I didn’t flinch.

I almost smiled.

Maybe time is a tide,

but maybe—

just maybe—

I finally stopped fighting the current.

Maybe healing isn’t what we wait for.

Maybe it’s what we decide

to let happen

when the ache

gets too heavy to carry

and the silence feels

a little like peace.