When the blue silence presses,
and absence carves its hollow,
I search for a rare diamond,
a glint of you,
of us,
among the drifting days.

You, all edges and precision,
the logic mind.
I, the artist,
unruly and alive,
painting between your lines.
Together, we unmade the fractures
and called it a whole.

A dragonfly hovered—
fragile, fleeting—
a reminder of your soul
and the weight of what you left.
The brittle smile you wore,
I held it once,
felt the shatter in my hands.

Now, I sketch the absence,
and you map its edges.
Between us,
a quiet collaboration.
No need to name the loss,
no need to claim the light—
we move as one,
carving truth from shadow.

The orchid leans on the windowsill,
its bruised petals curling inward,
a lover retreating from touch.
I press my fingers to the ache behind my eyes,
tears hovering like syrup, slow and amber,
binding the moment to the marrow of memory.
Time drips thick,
a sweetness heavy with regret,
its weight both burden and balm.

You spoke love as if it were a fragile thing,
delicate as twilight slipping between hands.
Your voice held the softness of midwife palms,
unafraid to cradle what could not yet breathe.
I clung to those words,
their sweetness lingering like salt on my tongue,
until they dissolved into silence,
the aftertaste of everything unspoken.

The sea rises in my dreams,
its waves stinging, cleansing,
dragging away the grains of unsaid good-byes.
The horizon remains distant, unreachable,
but I think of syrup’s deliberate fall,
how even the slowest drop reaches its end.
I carry the ache of transformation,
a tender weight,
and let the salt beneath my skin
become the shape of healing.