Truths That Wander at Night

They met like fog meets the shore.

Time didn’t rewind.


It just stood quietly between them,


in old conversations
that never quite finished.

No need for answers.


Just the hum of what wasn’t said,


the gravity of almosts.

Memory flickered like a dying streetlamp,


casting shapes they almost recognized.


Familiar.
And too far gone to touch.

Some truths don’t speak—they drift.


And some nights
are just soft places for them to pass through.

And somewhere between what was said and what wasn’t—something still lingers.