The Warm Hollow

The mute cushion, now alone and quiet,
still keeps a trace without a name.
Not the weight, nor the fabric of your dress,
but a warm memory that presses on it.
A small breath, almost an echo
of back leaned, fingers still.

In the fresh air, the boundary becomes clear:
here the cold wood, there the gentle comfort.
A brief phantom, an unexpected gift,
that time neither scatters nor dissolves.
A silent story of short presences,
letting go before it vanishes.

It is a goodbye without gesture, a greeting without voice,
this intact fragment, almost an anticipation.
The trace of passing, light and silent,
before the cold resumes its present.