What name befits the heart
that loosens its hold on what it treasures most?
The soul that whispers farewell
while every pulse still cries thy name?
O, they walk in shadows of their own devotion,
bearing a gentle sorrow no eyes may see.
To let go is to cut a piece of oneself,
to bleed silently beneath the cloak of dignity,
and yet smile,
so the beloved may step into sunlight
unbound, unshadowed, free.
They are autumn in human form:
a fading leaf,
golden and trembling,
released from the branch they love,
surrendered to the wind,
yet radiant in their sacrifice.
No scorn, no envy, no bitterness—
only awe at the quiet courage
of a heart that loves enough to hurt,
that bends beneath the weight of love
and still rises,
bearing the grief of longing
as a gift,
that the other may soar unbound.
O rare and noble soul,
thy love is not lost,
but folded in the silence between
farewell and memory,
and there it shall dwell
forever, luminous, unbroken.
—faye
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 6:18 AM UTC
What name befits the heart
that loosens its hold on what it treasures most?
The soul that whispers farewell
while every pulse still cries thy name?
O, they walk in shadows of their own devotion,
bearing a gentle sorrow no eyes may see.
To let go is to cut a piece of oneself,
to bleed silently beneath the cloak of dignity,
and yet smile,
so the beloved may step into sunlight
unbound, unshadowed, free.
They are autumn in human form:
a fading leaf,
golden and trembling,
released from the branch they love,
surrendered to the wind,
yet radiant in their sacrifice.
No scorn, no envy, no bitterness—
only awe at the quiet courage
of a heart that loves enough to hurt,
that bends beneath the weight of love
and still rises,
bearing the grief of longing
as a gift,
that the other may soar unbound.
O rare and noble soul,
thy love is not lost,
but folded in the silence between
farewell and memory,
and there it shall dwell
forever, luminous, unbroken.
—faye
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