Night Never Lived

Breath of a night that never happened,
grazes time without touching dawn,
an ink beat within the void.
Moon prints on the margins of the calendar,
points of light that do not fade,
pages that tremble at the touch of a dream.
Time holds its breath, yet unborn,
and the space between days has a silver echo,
a faint sign of what was not.
Thus that breath lives in time
never happened, but present among the seconds,
a moon tracing dates with quiet caress. #

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