It lingers, bitter
as old iron in the mouth,
the memory of shame—
sharp on the tongue, its weight
pressing against breath.
I stand here, almost apart,
far enough to watch it curl,
pale smoke in cool air.
But still, it whispers,
still it calls, faint but
with the weight of every word
I swallowed, back then.
Have I healed?
Or is this just distance,
space enough to see
yet still drawn, somehow,
as though its pull
never left my skin.
Even as I watch it drift,
I feel its edges,
close and familiar,
like a hand
I thought I’d let go of.
English