She came like light under a closed door,
gently, unstoppable.
She did not sit, or stand,
only was.
Something passed between them,
not speech,
just echoes of things unsaid,
suspended in air,
like dust in morning sunlight.
Soon her presence began to thin,
like morning dew,
or the music one remembers
only when the room is quiet.
He did not reach for her.
There are gestures
that exist only in the mind.
Outside, the old tree’s leaves
danced to a passing breeze.