The Distance Between Breaths

I left the window open so the evening could decide what to keep.

The curtain learned your rhythm first, moving toward the room then away, as if longing were just another weather pattern.

Some nights I still place a glass on the table for the version of us that never learned departure.

It gathers dust slowly, which is another way of saying time still notices.

And when the city finally settles, when even the traffic forgets its name, I hear it:

the distance between breaths, where love does not disappear, only changes shape.