Seeing Clearly, at Cost

Time didn’t move in a straight line.

It came in waves.

Some passed without notice.

Some stayed longer than they should have.

In one, the colors shifted.

Not enough to stop anything.

Just enough to notice.

Dark blue held too long and went black.

Green carried something else with it.

A pull toward red that didn’t belong,

but didn’t leave either.

I wrote it down.

Not to prove it.

Just to keep it from moving again.

Another wave held the room.

Objects where they were left.

Keys without intention.

A cup unfinished.

A coat over a chair that hadn’t been returned to the moment.

Nothing wrong.

Just paused.

Attention had stopped somewhere

and the room kept the trace.

In another, I learned I was behind.

Three hundred pieces.

I looked for edges.

Corners.

Fit.

She didn’t.

She matched color.

Shades close enough

that my way of seeing

was already obsolete.

I didn’t argue it.

I just saw it.

The light kept moving.

It always does.

What begins tight and white

doesn’t stay.

It stretches.

Softens.

Shifts toward red

the farther it travels.

Not because the source changed.

Just distance.

In the garden, it shows itself.

Leaves first.

Full.

Certain.

Then something gives way.

Flower comes

when the light has moved far enough

that holding no longer makes sense.

Unless something interferes.

Sometimes it does.

There was a wave that didn’t release.

Pressure without exit.

Held too long.

Then something broke through—

not outward,

but down.

A drop.

A hit without impact.

And laughter.

Not humor.

Not choice.

Just a system letting go

in the only way it could.

It passed.

Then came back.

Then passed again.

Like waves do.

I thought I was moving through time.

But it was closer to this:

Time moved through me.

Each wave carrying something forward

I wasn’t ready to hold

until I was.

Now it’s quieter.

The room holds less.

The objects settle.

The garden waits

without forcing a season.

The light still shifts

but I notice it sooner.

Nothing is fixed.

Not the color.

Not the moment.

Not the way it’s remembered.

Only this stays:

Seeing clearly,

at cost.

And letting the wave pass

without trying to stop it.