I set a single page down
between two days — not lost, not yet found —
where dust forgets to settle and light remembers edges.
On that page I fold the business of repair:
the quiet wins, the soft rearguards, the doors opened
by people who listened long enough to be moved.
I write them down as if naming them keeps them safe.
There is a place in the margin for what we refuse to carry:
blame that makes small things heavy, questions that haunt at midnight,
the duty that is not yours to shoulder. I tear those lines gently out
and let the wind return them to the world — it can hold them now.
Then I close the book with both hands, not to finish, but to rest it;
to let the ink settle into something steadier than the day's rush.
A small bell rings in my head — not loud, only clear —
and the room remembers how to be calm.
If anything needs untying later, it will find its ribbon.
For now: the page, the light, the breath between the lines.
This is enough until the next careful move.