The morning arrives
    like any other.

No banners,
   no sirens,
   no reason for the air

   to feel heavier—
                   but it does.

Messages,
    just like yesterday.
    Just like *any* day.

But the space between the words
    feels tighter,
    as if…
          holding something back.

We don’t say it.

We don’t need to.

The world is dressed for something
    we refuse to recognize—

    the cherub's name remains unsaid.

Shops gleam,
    music plays,
    people move with purpose,

    but we stay still,
    tucked in the quiet,

    pretending not to notice.

Instead—
    we talk about…
                  anything else.

The way time drags.
The way we woke up restless.
The way that last song moved us.

The way eight days
    still feels too far away.

And maybe,
    if we don’t say it,
       it won’t matter—

    that today was never meant to be spent…
                                           apart.