In quiet shadow of autumn’s embrace,
She did appear — dark hair tied in a knot, her tendrils swayed,
A wraith in motion, light as fleeting grace,
She seemed to float, not walk, as if she played.
Her eyes, a tangled maze of sorrow’s hue,
Held mocking glint beneath their veiled disguise,
Whispering secrets, truths, untold, askew,
And all the mysteries that hid behind our lives.

I reckon rivers, cold with ancient song,
Where lights like scattered stars would softly fade,
The crunch of snow beneath our feet belonged
To winter’s kiss, its icy serenade.
But then, in autumn, our hearts aligned,
In silence where the leaves began to weep,
And in that space, where words were left behind,
We spoke of what the world could never keep.

Her home — a haven, tender, warm, and still,
Books lined the shelves, a silent, sacred trust,
While soft light flickered, casting shadows’ thrill,
And candles burned, as if in love or lust.
Her perfume lingered, blending with the air,
A fragrance like the hearth of ancient dreams,
And in her voice — a melody so rare,
Each word a whisper from forgotten streams.

We spoke of books, of lives we wished to weave,
Of promises the future held in thrall.
She said, “To live is to believe, to grieve,
But never lose yourself, not through it all.”
Her words, like keys to doors I’d never known,
Unlocked a chamber within me, soft yet vast,
And in that moment, all my fears were shown
To be illusions, fading with the past.

Then came the day the train stole you away,
The air was cold, a sharp and bitter knife,
And all the noise of engines tried to sway
The space between us—like the death of life.
Your eyes, so full of sorrow, tore at me,
A part of you I knew was slipping through,
And as the time consumed the world we’d see,
I knew I’d never be the same, like you.

You were not just a person in my world,
But something more—like sunlight through the dark,
A glow that through the years has still unfurled,
A sacred memory, its so attractive spark.
Though time has claimed its toll, and we have strayed,
The echoes of our love remain in me,
A testament to what we once portrayed,
A love that lives beyond the eyes we see.

The tale of every love, a pattern spun,
A dance of meeting, parting — never done.
Its own attractive spark, too plain to hide,
A law of worlds, both vast and unified.
Beneath the mask of what we claim our own,
A force persists, relentless, overgrown,
Erasing lines that once defined the heart,
Till memory and self are torn apart.

Through time, our recollections start to blur,
A stream of thought where edges faintly stir,
And in this flow, the self begins to fade,
Lost in the vast, unending cosmic shade.
No longer bound by lines of “you” or “me”,
We merge into the boundless, endless sea
Of nothingness, without night or light,
And lose ourselves, dissolving out of sight.