You drift back softly,  
like the memory of a song  
I once knew by heart
and just as I begin to sing again,  
you disappear into silence.

Each hello feels like sunlight  
breaking through storm clouds
warm enough to believe  
the storm is finally over,  
but fleeting enough to remind me  
I’m still caught in the rain.

It’s like something calls you away  
right when your laughter  
begins to sound familiar,  
just when your smile  
feels safe again.

I reach for you,  
hands trembling with hope,  
but my fingers close on shadows,  
empty air left colder  
by your absence.

You're always free to leave,  
yet each quiet withdrawal  
cuts deeper than words could  
a wound invisible, yet felt  
in every moment you’re not here.

But even if I don't understand  
the tides that pull you away,  
I accept this part of you,  
the hidden currents,  
the silence you need to breathe.

Because caring for you means  
loving even the spaces between us,  
holding gently  
the mysteries you keep  
just beyond my reach.