You said
there would be a better moment.

Not in the middle of it.
Not when I was already carrying
what you had done.

Later, you said.
When it could be done right.

So I stepped back.
Left space for it.

Gave it room to arrive
on its own.

Days passed.

Then more.

The air stayed the same.

No return to it.
No reaching back.
No sign you ever intended
to stand where it happened.

Just the quiet continuation
of everything that made it break.

The same distance.
The same absence
where I should have been.

You moved through it easily.

As if intention
had already done the work.

As if saying it would happen
meant it had.

And I watched
the shape of it settle in.

Not the mistake.

The pattern.

The way something can be named
as important

and still never be touched.

The way words can circle
for days

without ever
arriving

anywhere

that requires you
to change.