I knew her once.
Or maybe only the shadow left behind.
She stood there longer than I saw,
waiting for what I could have given—
but couldn’t name.
And I loved her—
in the way storms ravage the sky,
in the way a glass waits for wine.
But love isn’t measured by its weight in our hands,
only by the space it leaves behind—
the pressure of air where her voice once was,
and the way silence now deafens my ears.
She is somewhere new,
In another room and another world,
where the sun still folds on her face
the way my lost eyes once did.
And me—
still walking,
still waiting,
as if heading toward
where she stands in the light,
leading me back to her.