Today—
   no clever lines,
   no metaphors,
   no playful rhymes

   about packing suitcases or changing flights.

No poetry
   about last nights
   and goodbyes,

   no perfect phrasing about leaving again or counting hours.

Because today—
   words won't help.

Words make it real,
         too final,
       too certain.

If I don't write it…
   maybe I can pause it,
               delay it,
   hold onto the feeling

   of one more night,
      one more laugh,
      one more kiss…

   a little bit longer.

Tomorrow—
   I'll find the words again;

   shaped by distance,
   softened by memory,

   but today they're heavy—

   too raw,
   too close to write.

Today, the words
   are quiet—
   not because they aren't there,

   but because I just can't bring myself to write them down.