Fragments of unfinished things.

She did not leave all at once.

There was no single moment to mark her ending.

She thinned slowly, a thread loosening from a sleeve,

until her shape slipped out of mine.

I find her in unfinished things:

ideas paused mid‑breath,

projects waiting with a patience I no longer understand.

She was someone who could begin.

I am someone who circles.

The days narrow.

Edges blur.

Even simple things drift from my hands

as if they belong to someone else.

Something gathers beneath thought,

a quiet turning that draws me down

into a place without edges,

where time folds and care dissolves

and I cannot find the way back.

Yet even there, she flickers:

a reflex to reach for a pen,

a brief wanting to finish

what once felt possible.

I hold onto that small, stubborn light.

And at night, lying beside my wife,

her warmth steady against my back,

I still feel the distance open inside me.

A loneliness with no visible source,

only the sense of drifting

in a room she cannot enter

though she is right there.

If she left in fragments,

perhaps she remains in fragments too,

quiet and scattered,

waiting for the current to ease

so she can rise again.