A sentence I dare not utter aloud,
a tenderness too dear to summon
without sorrow loosening its floodgates.
My sweet refrain, my graceful turning,
veiled now beneath the quiet melancholy of present hours.
And still, at times, I close my eyes
and cast my head back toward her again:
that child of fevered light and restless hands,
all longing, all luminous devotion.
The joy remains untouched in its essence,
though never again in its first form.
There is an ache in remembering
how fiercely the heart once reached toward eternity,
how certain it was of its own becoming.
A small and sacred death, perhaps
to outlive the child who believed herself boundless.
Yet I remain grateful for the remnants:
for the rhythm still fluttering beneath my ribs,
for the phantom of those gilded movements,
for the cruel tenderness of loving something
so deeply
it never truly leaves.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 6:16 AM UTC
A sentence I dare not utter aloud,
a tenderness too dear to summon
without sorrow loosening its floodgates.
My sweet refrain, my graceful turning,
veiled now beneath the quiet melancholy of present hours.
And still, at times, I close my eyes
and cast my head back toward her again:
that child of fevered light and restless hands,
all longing, all luminous devotion.
The joy remains untouched in its essence,
though never again in its first form.
There is an ache in remembering
how fiercely the heart once reached toward eternity,
how certain it was of its own becoming.
A small and sacred death, perhaps
to outlive the child who believed herself boundless.
Yet I remain grateful for the remnants:
for the rhythm still fluttering beneath my ribs,
for the phantom of those gilded movements,
for the cruel tenderness of loving something
so deeply
it never truly leaves.
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