What’s looking back
A glance. A glance that speaks time.
A glance that knows histories—where, how, and why.
A shiver. A shiver down the spine.
It won’t still for reason. It won’t still for lies.
A choice. A choice of the mind.
The balance seems level—composed, almost fine.
But look deeper and you’ll find:
the scales tipped long before you called it time.
The shoulders—curving out from the spine.
This pressure they carry is unnatural, not right.
The nighttime.
When silence lets the ghosts arrive.
Wine, whisky, cognac—
they soften the edges,
but never make the past die.
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