Every time my life changes,
without warning, without pause.
I turn to the worn pages of my book
and try to make sense of it —
a line here, a thought there,
something that might rhyme with grief.
Change stirs my chest,
not like music —
more like static,
a skipped heartbeat.
So I lean away,
afraid of falling,
of failing —
and slip into that old darkness,
the one no one else sees.
But even there,
just as I’m sure I’m gone,
someone always finds me.
A hand.
A voice.
A reason to step forward.
And I begin to understand:
the time I thought I lost to change
was brief.
The real time —
the true time —
was the love
that came because of it.