Disorientation and Loss

It begins quietly.

A shift.

A soft unraveling.

The room is the same,

but something has slipped.

Names hover,

faces shimmer at the edges.

You reach,

but the thread is no longer there.

This is not forgetting.

It is floating.

It is the ache of almost.

In this zone,

the ground tilts gently.

We walk with care,

through the blur,

toward what remains.