Her name lingers in ink-stained verses,
Yet her footsteps never trace my door.
I wrote her into a love eternal,
Only to find she read no more.

She was both the poet and the silence,
The muse who never turned my way.
Her absence carves my soul to ruin,
Her love—a grave where echoes stay.

So long as hearts can break, as time may grieve,
So long lives loss, and I shall never leave.