In the Arms of Absence
Nothing shattered,
yet something scattered.
Like lines
parted from their purpose.
We became shores
on opposite ends
of the same sorrow.
Time passed —
not in days,
but in unsaid names.
Each evening wore
your shape quietly,
and I searched for you
in my own shadow.
No map remained
of where we had left off.
The door closed
from the inside —
twice.
The Return Without Sound
Then one day,
you returned —
not with thunder,
but like dusk
spilling into the room.
No footsteps,
no echoes,
just your breath
and mine,
meeting in still air.
We didn’t speak.
Eyes held enough.
Sometimes,
reunion is not a celebration —
but a quiet exhale
after years of holding in.
You were here.
I was not waiting.
But I stayed.
That evening,
time stepped off the clock
and rested
in the warmth of our hands.
The Grace of Simply Being
Now,
there’s nothing left to reach for —
because you
are here.
Love no longer
asks to be named.
It just
is.
We walk beside
without counting steps,
for every road
now knows your scent.
The habit of you
no longer mirrors —
but sunlight
that enters through
my open window
and rests
on the floor of me.
No need for words
to fill the sky between us.
Now,
our silence
is the most fluent thing we speak.
Final Touch
This love —
it isn’t pursuit,
nor prize.
It is water in the stone,
wind in the trees,
a gaze that does not leave,
yet never demands.
There is no beginning here,
no ending —
only a soft, steady
us.
A love
that says nothing,
but never falls silent.
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