︎ 38 / let it centrifuge
"You have to follow it,"
she said, almost to herself.
"Flowing currents don’t wait.
They spin, they fold,
they carry you past
the things you thought you knew.
Even the windows know this—
wooden frames sailing,
moving regardless."
I stopped walking,
but she kept going,
gesturing faintly,
as if to draw the shapes
of the things she couldn’t say.
"Let it centrifuge," she murmured,
"spin into itself.
You can’t fight the flow."
And as she faded into the distance,
I stood still,
the thin wind curling around me,
wondering if I’d ever
catch up.