Somewhere

Love that cannot wait is not love.

People leave like this sometimes,

as if stepping into another room,

as if the air between you

was never breathed, never shared.

She wanted doors that opened cleanly,

not corridors that turned and turned

through the quiet, unlit places of your life.

But the clocks still keep their hours.

The kettle hums, the rain rehearses

its old soliloquy against the glass.

Time does not stop.

Not for love, not for absence.

Somewhere, the wind is still blowing.

Somewhere, a train moves through the dark,

leaving a station you do not know.

And somewhere, what is meant for you

is already walking towards you,

sure-footed, unhurried,

arriving exactly when it should.