Do you know,
when the air stills between us, I leave it heavy with unsaid things?
That every pause in our conversation is a breath I hold
to keep from spilling the truth I carry like a fragile glass?

I wonder if you see it, the way I turn phrases too carefully,
as if each word might accidentally confess.
If you notice the silence that blooms in the spaces where I long to place your name,
or the way I linger on your laughter
as though it were a song I’m afraid to lose.

There’s a gravity to this quiet.
It pulls me closer to you, yet I hold my distance,
hoping you might look back and see it—
the shadow of my love, standing patiently beside me,
aching for you to recognize it.

Do you know?
When I look at you,
I’m writing love letters in my mind,
every glance a line, every smile a verse,
every heartbeat screaming its question into the void:

Can you hear me?

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.