The Restless Poet

Your hands know
the shape of my wait,
the way dusk knows
the edge of the roof
before it falls.

Not the minutes.
Not the hour.

The house holding its breath.

The way rivers know
the shape of stone —
not by touch,
but by return.

By coming back.
By learning the sound
my absence refuses to make,
and keeping all of it.

Yours.