why does it make me feel ten again—
this hush between us?
as if the air itself forgets how to hold me,
as if time unspools backward
into a kitchen of linoleum and light,
where her voice once lived
like the ticking of a clock I could count on.

now,
she stares at the same window
as if it were a stranger.
words hang heavy in her throat
but never land.

and i—too old to need her hand,
too young to let it go—
am ten again,
aching at the altar of absence,
mourning the sound
of someone who’s still here.