The Line That Doesn’t Fit

The night folds itself neatly,

corners tucked like a well‑made bed.

A moth taps the window, asking nothing,

only repeating its soft‑winged prayer.

Somewhere, a kettle remembers how to sing.

The trees lean in, conspiratorial,

their branches whispering the old stories

about travelers who learned to listen

only after losing their way.

And the moon, patient as ever,

keeps watch over what we meant to say

but didn’t.

The river moves like a thought returning,

quiet, persistent, unfinished—

carrying with it the line that doesn’t belong,

still refusing to explain itself.