Elegy for the Hour That Never Returned

I mourn the hour that left without goodbye,

the soft‑lit season when the world felt slow

and every ordinary thing—

a kettle’s sigh, a window’s glow—

seemed stitched with meaning.

I search for it in the corners of rooms,

in the hush before the lamp clicks on,

in the dust that rises when I open

a book I once read by a younger light.

But time is a river that does not return

what it carries away.

I grieve the version of myself

who lived inside that vanished hour—

the one who believed the future

would wait patiently,

who thought nothing beautiful

could ever be lost for long.

Now the air is different.

Now the shadows fall at sharper angles.

Now I walk through days that feel

a little too large for me,

as if I’ve outgrown something

I meant to keep.

Still, I set a place for that hour

at the table of my memory.

I pour it tea.

I let it rest.

And though it never comes,

I keep the chair pulled out—

a small, stubborn act of love

for what once was

and will never be again.