She sits letter folded in her hands

She sits, letter folded in her hands,

the crease sharper than I remember,

cutting across skin pale as winter light.

The wrinkle folds like a line of worry,

a fault line carved by years

and silent battles.

Her eyes don’t meet mine,

shadow thrown between her brows,

a weight settling, slow,

the quiet anger that folds itself tight

around the crease,

a mark not meant for forgiving.

I watch her, the line a wound,

a moment pressed between us,

waiting for words that don’t come,

somewhere deep in the wrinkle

where time and silence meet.