You ask everyone you know,
How long does it take to forget?
They answer in numbers, in measured time—
A year for every year you loved,
twice as long if it was true,
half if you replace her with another.
But they do not speak of the truth—
that love does not end,
it only changes its place within you.
It leaves the hands but not the soul,
steps out of sight but not out of existence.
You erase her number,
but she remains,
not in words, but in silence.
She lives in the space between heartbeats,
in the air before a name is spoken,
in the way your hands still know
the weight of her absence.
You tell yourself love must have an ending,
that what can be touched must also fade.
But love is not held in the palm—
It is the wind that moves through it.
It is the river that does not ask
if it may pass.
It is the flame that burns
even when the wick is gone.
You were at the age
where love felt like possession,
where you thought what was given
would always remain.
But love does not belong to us.
It visits, it teaches, it departs—
though , it never truly fades.
And perhaps, in another life,
you held on at the right moment.
Perhaps your hands were softer,
your heart more patient.
Perhaps she still wakes beside you,
her voice still shaping your mornings,
her laughter still filling the spaces
you now walk alone.
But in this life,
she is the wind you cannot catch,
the shadow you do not chase,
the presence that stays
even as you learn to let go.
And the half-life of love
is forever.