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Some days

the light comes in crooked,

and even familiar colors

don’t return your gaze.

A hand moves

as if through fog—

drawing nothing,

or something

that doesn’t belong to you.

The air holds

a weightless sorrow,

like a song

half-remembered

or a bird

that forgot where it was flying.

Then a voice—

warm, distant—

touches the stillness,

and the ache

loosens its grip

just enough

for you to breathe.