I whisper you when the absence gets too loud.
When the echo of you claws through me
like waves against bone.
I start and end each day with your face,
Sometimes real,
Oftentimes conjured by a memory too stubborn to die.
Time has stopped passing for me, it stands still in my memories,
It loops—
a reel of golden hours
and the night you disappeared.
I carry you in the quiet between each breath,
a name I whisper when the absence of you
rips through the stillness like a wound reopening.
I live inthe memories of our love,
I live in the memories that we have made,
I live in the world I thought I could have with you,
My hands still tremble for you,
still remember how your skin felt like safety.
My heart, it hasn’t beat the same since you left.
But it still races when the memory of us surfaces,
sudden, sharp, holy.
Like it remembers the shape of you
better than it remembers how to survive without you.
It aches for every flash of you,
Every glimpse—real or imagined.
And maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.
Maybe the only thing that’s real
is the dream I can’t wake from.
The hours echo.
Time, cruel and circular, repeats itself.
