2. One Soul, Two Bodies

It was not love that grew—
It was something older,
Something deeper,
as if the wind remembered
where it once had whispered.

We spoke,
but our words were only shadows
of the quiet that lived between us—
a sacred hush
in which souls listened.

We were not learning each other;
we were returning
to a truth we had once been.
You didn’t enter my life—
you awakened it.

Every glance you gave
was a door I’d known before.
Every laugh you shared
felt like a bell I’d rung
in another time,
another breath.

We never touched like lovers,
we touched like water and moonlight—
without needing form
to feel whole.

You were not in my arms,
but in my air,
in the pause between heartbeats,
in the echo between each step.

We were not in love—
we were love.

We did not plan,
we simply moved—
like two flames leaning
to find each other
in the dark.

People watched and asked,
“What is this between you?”
And we smiled,
for how could we name
what even silence
couldn’t hold?

Then came the stillness.
The shift.
The moment when something unseen
pulled us apart,
as if the world had remembered
that it was never ready
for something so true.

No blame.
No breaking.
Just a quiet unraveling
of threads woven too fine
for time to bear.

You went.
Or rather,
you were taken.

And I did not stop you.
Because how does one stop
a river that must flow?

But even as you left,
something in me remained—
not memory,
but presence.

You were not absent.
You were within.
You were every breath
I didn’t notice,
every pause that felt
like prayer.

I did not cry.
I listened.

To the echo of your being
in the spaces
you had once filled.

And somewhere,
deep beneath the hours,
I knew—
you were still mine.

Not to hold,
but to belong to.

One soul.
Two bodies.
Still tethered
by the thread
of the eternal.