You left me — but your voice lingers still,
a quiet echo threading the hollow of my chest.
Each word, a ghost — soft as smoke,
yet heavy as stones I cannot lay down.
Tell me — does absence end a presence,
or do the shadows of love remain,
like paintings in an empty gallery,
etched into the silence of who we were?
In every corner of my mind,
your words move like uninvited guests,
rearranging memories,
leaving traces where you once filled every space.
If love is gone —
why does my heart still tune itself
to the phantom murmurs of your voice,
waiting, endlessly,
for a silence that heals?
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 11:53 AM UTC
You left me — but your voice lingers still,
a quiet echo threading the hollow of my chest.
Each word, a ghost — soft as smoke,
yet heavy as stones I cannot lay down.
Tell me — does absence end a presence,
or do the shadows of love remain,
like paintings in an empty gallery,
etched into the silence of who we were?
In every corner of my mind,
your words move like uninvited guests,
rearranging memories,
leaving traces where you once filled every space.
If love is gone —
why does my heart still tune itself
to the phantom murmurs of your voice,
waiting, endlessly,
for a silence that heals?
Even when love is gone, its echoes remain — soft as whispers in our heads, but heavy as stones in our hearts. A very quiet ache that we go along.
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