After a great love,
a shadow takes its place,
a weight that feels like the absence of wings,
dragging through the ashes of what was bright.

The heart, once a cathedral,
now echoes with silence,
the stained-glass shards of memory
cutting wherever they fall.

Where hands once entwined,
there are fists clenched tight.
Where whispers melted barriers,
walls rise higher, brick by brick,
mortared by bitter words
and unsent letters.

Hate does not come softly—
it storms in, loud and demanding,
dressed in the armour of betrayal,
holding the mirror of every moment
that makes us vulnerable.

It feeds on the spaces
left by tenderness,
on the cracks that love couldn’t fill,
on the questions that will never
find an answer.

And yet, beneath the rage,
beneath the sharp, unyielding edges,
a quiet truth remains:
We only hate so fiercely
because once,
We loved that much.

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.