Rearranging

You wake to find
the world rewritten—
chairs where the table was,
the smell of oranges
turning into rain.

Someone sings in the next room,
but it's your own voice,
older, and without apology.

You walk through a field
where your grandfather stands,
pockets full of unfinished stories.
He tells them again the way he did
the day he left, though no one
is listening now.

You think you've forgiven
the version of yourself
that didn't scream,
but forgiveness
is made of time
and distance.

The past stays folded
in the hem of your shadow,
creases deepening
each time you look away.

Then you stand there,
building small altars
to what you've lost,
lighting candles
with whatever
you can find
that still burns.