He moves like moonlight spilled on tired streets,
A hush in the chaos where softness repeats.
Eyes like dewdrops on windows at dawn,
Holding stories that ache but still carry on.

He is a sketch left half in charcoal and gold,
A canvas of silences tenderly bold.
Not thunder or fire — he is the breeze,
That touches your soul then leaves with ease.

A book with no title, a line never said,
He’s coffee gone cold that still warms your head.
A lighthouse that waits with a gentle light,
Though no ship may come — he stays through the night.

He speaks in pauses, in glances, in air,
A poem unwritten but floating somewhere.
He is not yours, and may never be,
But he lives in the corners where dreams run free.

So you sit with your heart pressed against a screen,
Loving a shadow that feels serene.
For not all love must touch or stay—
Some simply glows and walks away.