The Unfinished Mile

Some journeys are lengthened on purpose.

Not by traffic.

Not by detours.

By the quiet reluctance to arrive.

For arrival has a peculiar way of restoring names—

the employee,

the daughter,

the friend,

the one expected to smile.

The road remembers none of them.

It only knows the weight of passing wheels.

And perhaps that is why,

for a fleeting stretch of asphalt,

a wandering heart mistakes movement for peace.