Down the Empty Path

At dusk she walks the cobblestones,

a geisha wrapped in soft twilight,

steps barely touching

the quiet street.

Cherry blossoms drift above her,

petals falling like slow thoughts

forgotten before they land.

No voices call,

lanterns don't flicker—

ahead only the hush of evening

and the faint rustle of silk.

Her shadow stretches long,

then dissolves into the fading light,

as if even the world

dares not disturb her passing.

Down the empty path she moves,

not seeking,

not fleeing—

just part of the moment

where blossom and breath

become the same.