Time Is Not a Remedy

Time is not a remedy.

It moves.

It does not come to mend—

it shifts the weight of the ache,

like a chair dragged

from the center of the room

to a corner where dust settles.

Some mornings it is still there.

Others, it is only a shadow

crossing the floor.

And then, without ceremony,

you find yourself breathing

without tripping over what was.

No triumph in this.

Only the small fact

of continuance.

A body that keeps its appointments.

A heart that does not ask permission

to go on.

There is something almost ruthless

in the way life persists

while we are still kneeling

among the broken things.

It has happened before—

you know this.

You thought you could not carry it.

Yet your hands did.

You thought it was an ending.

It learned another name.

Time does not offer consolation.

It offers distance.

And one day, looking back,

you see it clearly:

time did not pass.

You did.