Bruges

You walk more slowly here.

It isn’t a decision.
Something in the streets
alters your pace.

The water is everywhere,
but not in a way that draws attention.
It sits between things,
holding them apart.

Bridges come and go.
You cross them
without marking where.

Windows reflect
what is no longer there.
Light lingers
longer than expected.

It feels arranged,
though you know it isn’t.

We follow the streets
without choosing them.

At some point
Julie meets us
and begins to speak.

Not as a guide.
More as someone
who has already accepted
what this place does to people.

She points out small things.
A door.
A detail in stone.
A turn we would have missed.

Her voice carries
just enough.

We listen.
Not to remember,
but because it fits the day.

Later
we find ourselves near water again.

It is difficult to say
how we arrived there.

The same towers appear
from another angle.

Nothing insists.

Evening comes
without interruption.

Lights turn on
one by one.

For a moment
it seems possible
to remain.

Not forever.
Just without moving on.

But we do move on.

You leave with the sense
that something has been kept from you.

Not deliberately.
Just the way certain places are.

They do not give everything
at once.