April 26th returns
like a remote memory,
one of those pale, trembling ones
that no longer knows
if it belongs to you
or to the air around you.
It brings back
what it was
between the two of us,
not the words,
not the gestures,
not even the moments,
but the texture of it,
the faint outline,
the afterimage.
A memory made of
water and dust.
Water:
for the way things once flowed,
for the softness,
for the quiet currents
that carried us
without asking permission.
Dust:
for what remains now,
for the particles of us
still floating in the corners
of forgotten rooms,
for the way everything settles
when the movement stops.
There is no sound around.
Not silence,
silence has intention.
This is the absence of sound,
the hollow quiet
of a place that used to echo
with something living.
April 26th stands in that quiet,
listening to what is no longer there,
touching the outline
of a connection
that dissolved
without fully disappearing.
Water.
Dust.
A memory that refuses
to choose one form.
And between them,
between us,
the soft, unspoken truth
that some things end
without ever truly finishing.
