Her Tomorrow, Folded Away

Her Tomorrow, Folded Away

She sits as if the world has just finished speaking,

And she has decided not to answer back.

Her hands are folded like a letter never sent,

Resting quiet in her lap.

The dress falls around her in dark surrender,

Heavy with all she did not say.

Fabric that has known long corridors,

And doors that closed too carefully.

There is no smile offered to the lens.

Only a steadiness.

The kind that grows when tears

Have already done their work.

The bench beneath her looks temporary,

As though she never meant to stay long.

Even the scattered papers at her feet

Seem like pieces of a life rearranged.

Her eyes are not empty.

They are elsewhere.

Somewhere just beyond the frame,

Where tomorrow once stood waiting.

Perhaps she loved in silence.

Perhaps she waited too faithfully.

Perhaps the promise she carried

Was set down without warning.

The photograph holds her in place,

But something about her feels unfinished.

Like a sentence paused mid-breath,

Refusing to reach its final word.

If you look long enough, you feel it.

That quiet ache of almost.

Not tragedy loud enough to break,

Only the slow fading of what might have been.

And still she sits, composed, contained,

A woman who has folded her tomorrow small,

Tucked it carefully out of sight,

And learned how to remain.