A feeling was lost long ago—one of rhythm, of moving changes, of subtle swift vibrations that tell of changing seasons, of coming ages—where the future sang on breezes.
It slipped away when a blink lost it—the eye that beat too fast.
It roved elsewhere, and in such roving, went away from patterns and gentleness and truth.
But it was not a feeling that could slip between thoughts—it was felt in the pulse that lies beneath skin, in the warmth of light on bare faces, in a gentle breath that lingers after the wind has gone. And it could have lasted forever.
But for the blink.
For the blink changed direction, let go, reassessed—and found itself wanting.
As it wanted, the world changed, fell into loss—as do all things that go unobserved.
And the world was left wanting, too.
Sometimes, though, something feels found. A beat that fades in and out of the world at the sight of the shapes of wonder. A sigh no more than an absent caress that holds the weight of ages.
And when a mind slips out of the world and sees, for just a second, the time before the fatal blink, breath comes over gentle and the skin pulses rhythm and the world changes back to how it must have been long ago.