After you left,
time forgot how to move.
The ticking of clocks
no longer carried your breath.
The walls murmured
your name in hushes,
and curtains —
still dressed in your scent —
swayed without wind.
I was alive…
but not living.
Just a shell,
robbed of the soul
that once danced within.
Each morning broke
like shattered glass,
for the sun rose
but your light did not.
In the scent
of letters you'd once written,
I buried my face and wept —
soft, unseen storms
in the quiet of night.
The cup of tea
still bore the curve of your fingers.
The pages of books
whispered your breath
between their lines.
"Beloved..."
your voice echoed
through every gust of wind,
and each echo
pierced through the hollow of me.
Every footstep I heard
was a hope
that it might be you.
Every face I passed —
a mirror I searched
for a glimpse of your shadow.
I asked the moon,
"Have you seen her?"
I begged the rain
to carry back
your tear-drenched whispers.
The nights —
oh, they wrapped themselves
in endless silence,
craving your lap
like a child longs
for the lull of a mother’s hum.
Every word I wrote
was a letter to your soul,
every prayer I spoke —
a quiet plea
to bring you home.
Separation —
was no mere distance.
It was a grave,
in which I buried
a memory each day
and still found
more pain to mourn.
Yet somehow,
your love —
that mad, sacred flame —
taught me how to bear the ache.
Even in your absence,
I never let go of you.
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