The door catches before the latch.
A voice lingers in the hallway, no words, only shape, then fades beneath unhurried steps.
Inside, a trace of warmth where someone lingered longer than they should.
Beautiful Delay
By Kerry A. Wiley
Even the light hesitates, thinning—
too early or too late.
A room without borders,
nothing has to go away.
A name worn
like something borrowed,
a language built from almost.
Something thinning, something worn
where silence isn’t empty.
Not forgiven, not forgotten,
only what gets left behind.
Touch became a question.
Absence answered.
No confession, no protection,
only echoes trying on meaning,
everything between.
Morning comes, bread on the table,
salt out of reach,
hands still trembling.
Not a promise, not a future,
only a beautiful delay.
Morning takes it back.
Morning makes its claim.
After it should have ended.