Some evenings
ask nothing from you.
Late Reply is about letting time move at its own pace. Coffee grows cold, ideas drift across the page and messages can wait until tomorrow. Sometimes doing nothing in particular is exactly what the day needed.
Messages left on read, I shrug it off
Room dim, rain tapping the window
I make a coffee that’s gone cold before I sip
Notes on a pad, scribbles of nothing urgent
Clock ticks, slow and steady
Neighbour’s music muffled through the wall
I stare at a page, words half-formed
Nothing pressing, nothing new
Time drifts, quiet and consistent
The city’s settled, I don’t
Late reply, doesn’t matter tonight
I’ll sit with the space, hold it light
Late reply, no rush to move
Quiet rhythm guides the mood
Curtains barely moving in the breeze
Streetlight leaking through the blinds
I hum along with a half-remembered tune
Let the hours pass at their own pace
Pages turn, ideas scattered in lines
Shopping list beside old notes
A gentle sway, a small sigh escapes
No one’s watching, no need to rush
Late reply, doesn’t matter tonight
I’ll sit with the space, hold it light
Late reply, no rush to move
Quiet rhythm guides the mood
Late reply, let the evening roll
Nothing waiting, nothing told
Late reply, I’ll just stay here
No rush going anywhere