The silence in the room has grown a weight, A heavy shroud where laughter used to dwell. I stand before the ghost of what was fate, And trace the maps of where we bruised and fell. The coffee cup still sits upon the stand, A ring of amber cooling in the light, I reach to touch the phantom of your hand, But grasp the lonely texture of the night.
It is a strange, sharp ache—this hollow space, Like rooms emptied of furniture and air. I find your shadow lingering in a place, A soft reflection, flickering and bare. I mourn the way we grew, the way we frayed, The tangled threads we couldn’t pull apart; The promises like sun-bleached banners swayed, Then folded in the winter of the heart.
Yet grief is not a wall, but just a tide, That pulls the golden sand into the deep. I carry all the joy we kept inside, Like secrets that the restless oceans keep. It’s bittersweet—to love and lose the bloom, To know the sting of ending, sharp and vast; I’ll keep a candle burning in this room, To light the threshold where I leave the past.
For though the ache may sharpen with the dawn, And memories may sting like sudden rain, I’m grateful that the light was once there drawn, Even to bear the beauty of this pain. Love leaves a map upon the weathered soul, A jagged line where once we dared to be; We break apart to learn how to be whole, Drifting, finally, toward an open sea.
