When the one who was here departs,
time hesitates,
then stands still.

The days proceed in their appointed order;
streets, rooms, familiar hours
continue without interruption,
yet each place is emptied
of what once gave it weight.

The one who went away returns—
not yet in flesh,
but in the turning of days.

Three days ago, all things were burdened,
the air dense with unsaid grief.
Two days ago, a quiet stirring,
a pulse beneath the stillness.

Is this longing—
this narrowing of distance,
this strange clarification?

What was far
is now seen plainly,
what was obscured
moves closer,
as if time itself
had learned to listen.

— Tae Hun Yoon