I will wait in the slow, hushed hours that drain colour from the sky, knowing the shade won’t brighten again for me but not tonight.

I will wait, though every shadow around me murmurs of your absence, though each heartbeat  drums the rhythm of  truth I’ve heard a thousand times.
You are not coming, not through the autumnal mist, not in the breath of the breeze or the star’s nocturnal quiet watch.
Still I will wait,

I will wait, a promise kept only to myself, a vow unspoken but alive in the chambers of my heart.  I will wait, even as I feel the night lean in close, weaving soft threads of solitude through the silence, as if to remind me that this waiting is mine alone.

For in some dim way, I find company in it; the tender ache that speaks to the memory of what I hoped, of what I dared believe, against all reason, against all proof.

I know you will not come, and yet here I remain.
Here, beneath the silent weight of the grey sky, beneath the patient, unmoving stars, I will wait for you.

And in this waiting, I hold to a flickering truth: that even in your absence, I am somehow more complete for having waited; if only for a shadow, if only for the echo of a dream.

My life now is spent like the last flicker of a match, burning but fading, a dim warmth that softens rather than ignites.

The days unravel quietly and in solitude ,each moment slipping like sand through my fingers—weightless, unnoticed, until I realize there’s less of it left.

I no longer chase time with the reckless hunger of my youth, nor do I greet mornings with the urgent need to carve out new paths. Instead, I linger in the in between, where silence ricochets around me.

The dreams I once built like towers stand in the distance, their glow dulled by the fog of my passing years.

The world, with all its rhythms, still hums around me, but I move slower now, regretting watching from the edges, feeling without possessing.

My life is spent, yes, but in the quiet closing of this chapter, there is a stagnant peace that rises, gentle as the last light of day.

I need to kiss you like the sky needs the sun to break the endless night, like the sea craves the moon to guide its restless tides.

My lips ache with a hunger only your breath can fill, a longing as ancient as the first whispered word between two souls. Every inch of space between us feels like a desert, where I wander lost and parched, searching for the oasis of your mouth.

I need to kiss you as if the air is too thin without it, as if time itself would stop unless I press my heart into yours through that soft collision.

The world could stand still, crumble, or fade away, but nothing matters as much as the simple truth of my life:
I need to kiss you.
Desperately.
Now.
Again.
Forever.

You're always in my heart, a quiet echo that fills the spaces between each beat. In the pause before breath, you linger, woven into the fabric of my being like a thread of light through the soft shadows of evening.

You’re the unspoken thought at the edge of my mind, present even in your absence, a presence that colours everything I see. Even when the world turns chaotic, there you are, steady as a whisper, constant as the sky.

My thoughts drift to you like a river to the sea, inevitable, as natural as the pull of the moon on tides. Always, you are there, not as a distant memory or fleeting dream, but as a truth that anchors me.

My days of laughter have slipped away, like sunlight caught in a wave, bright for a moment then lost to the deep.

Once, joy was found  in every corner—a child’s secret smile, the pulse of music in crowded rooms, the thrill of chasing a breeze through open windows.
Holidays,trips to the seaside long since past.

Now, the echoes are faint, hollow notes where melodies once sang. I walk through the same streets, the same rooms, but the colours have dimmed, the voices have softened.

The fun, the careless abandon, the rush of forgetting the weight of the world—they have packed up quietly, leaving only the stillness, the memories, and longing.

Now I wait in this quiet longing,wondering if the light might return, or if I must learn to dance with the shadows of memory instead.