Before a subject so infinite,
so deep it defies all measure,
we let the words in our hands
quietly slip away,
never truly grasping their meaning

Like ink that has bled and spread,
scattered letters without order pushed and pulled at one another,
until at last they gathered,
posing as a kind of scr1pture,
mimicking an essence firmer than silence

And yet, what remained within was not a finished sentence,
but the fine debris of moments that had given up on completion
something we recognized,
and still chose to read as though it held meaning

All our moments lingered briefly as subjects named youth,
and even after the shutter fell,
they refused to fade,
remaining as seasons at the edges of time

The warmest grain of spring and the coldest texture of winter intertwined,
fixed in a single exposure,
thinly, stubbornly pressed onto the surface of time

like a trace that knows it will vanish, yet refuses, in the end, to disappear