If someone
asks aloud
about the story
of our love...
We won’t shout.
We won’t explain.
We’ll whisper gently —
“We longed…
for just one meeting.”
No grand affair,
no written lines,
Just a silence
that carried signs.
One glance,
maybe two,
A moment
that never fully grew.
Eyes searched,
but never found.
Words rose,
but stayed unbound.
In every season,
every hue,
There was someone
I once knew.
We held no hands,
no vows were spoken,
Yet the heart
remained wide open.
No photographs,
no date to name,
Yet every thought
returned the same.
When no one saw,
we cried alone,
For love that bloomed
but was never known.
We weren’t strangers,
yet never close.
We were the story
that silence chose.
And if someday
they ask again —
“What was your love made of, then?”
We’ll smile a little,
with tearful grace,
And whisper —
“Of one lost meeting…
we still chase.”
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