The coffee sits cold on the wooden table,
A ghost of the steam that used to rise.
I’m weaving a truth from a tattered fable,
Looking for light in yesterday’s eyes.
We were a rhythm, a steady heartbeat,
A language of glances and shared, quiet breath.
Now there’s a silence on every street,
A hollowed-out echo, a small kind of death.
It isn't a crash or a sudden thunder,
It’s the slow, steady leaking of sand from the glass.
The "how are you doing?" that pulls me under,
The shadows of footsteps that no longer pass.
I carry the pieces—a song, or a scent,
The weight of a promise we couldn't quite keep.
I don't regret a moment we spent,
But the memory wakes when I’m trying to sleep.
For love isn't gone when the person departs,
It lingers like ink on a well-thumbed page.
It’s the quietest ache in the center of hearts,
The bird that still sings, though it's left the cage.
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 2:27 PM UTC
The coffee sits cold on the wooden table,
A ghost of the steam that used to rise.
I’m weaving a truth from a tattered fable,
Looking for light in yesterday’s eyes.
We were a rhythm, a steady heartbeat,
A language of glances and shared, quiet breath.
Now there’s a silence on every street,
A hollowed-out echo, a small kind of death.
It isn't a crash or a sudden thunder,
It’s the slow, steady leaking of sand from the glass.
The "how are you doing?" that pulls me under,
The shadows of footsteps that no longer pass.
I carry the pieces—a song, or a scent,
The weight of a promise we couldn't quite keep.
I don't regret a moment we spent,
But the memory wakes when I’m trying to sleep.
For love isn't gone when the person departs,
It lingers like ink on a well-thumbed page.
It’s the quietest ache in the center of hearts,
The bird that still sings, though it's left the cage.
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