Your hand in mine, a fragile weight,
a thread unraveled, pulled too thin.
The clock still moves, the seasons change,
but time won’t weave you back again.

I speak your name, the air stands still,
as if it dares not let you go.
But silence hums a bitter truth—
some echoes fade, some rivers flow.

So take this breath, this fleeting glance,
before you slip into the past.
For love remains, though you depart,
a haunting ache that’s meant to last.