All those years of looking past you, praise and judgement, jokes and blame. We could laugh away an evening, leave the hardest things unnamed. Underneath the easy laughter, something tender learned to speak. You would get as far as “Listen…” then look out toward the sea. Here, your words are breathing. Here, the morning takes its time. For the length of one slow sentence, your rhythm passes into mine. Let forever wait a little. Let the daylight cross the floor. I stop where you would stop for breath. I read that line once more. On the desk, a sheet of paper. Through the window, miles of blue. Every day, another question. Every answer asking more. Then the sea stayed blue without you. Your pen still lay beside the glass. There were things you hadn’t told us. There was time. We thought there was. Here, your words are breathing. Here, the morning takes its time. For the length of one slow sentence, your rhythm passes into mine. Let forever wait a little. Let the daylight cross the floor. I stop where you would stop for breath. I read that line once more. You deserved to finish slowly, let the last word find its place. But the world keeps no account of what it takes away. They can bind your words in gold. They can carve your name in stone. I would trade it for an evening walking with you slowly home. Here, your words are breathing. Here, the morning takes its time. For the length of one slow sentence, your rhythm passes into mine. Let forever wait a little. Let the daylight cross the floor. I stop where you would stop for breath. Then breathe, and read once more. I close the book. The day begins. I take your rhythm out with me.
