The Year That Never Grew Old

There was a year that never grew old.

The trees stayed young,

their leaves refusing to fall or bloom —

caught between a beginning and an ending

that never learned how to arrive.

The calendar repeated itself quietly.

No pages turned,

only the faint rustle of a wind

that didn’t know where to go.

I walked through that year as through a dream

that had forgotten its own story.

The air smelled the same every day —

like something waiting to happen.

Memories piled up like snow

that wouldn’t melt,

each one identical,

each one whispering:

You were here before.

I grew older,

but the year did not.

Its days folded over each other

like worn fabric.

Time circled itself,

a soft animal too tired to run.

Some nights I pressed my ear to the silence,

hoping to hear the sound of a clock waking up.

But there was only the heartbeat

of a moment that refused to move on.

If it ever ends,

I will miss its stillness —

the way it held me

in a tender kind of captivity,

as if to say:

You don’t have to leave to be lost.