The glimmer in your eye
          doesn’t shine the way I remember.
There’s still kindness in your gaze,
          but it feels hollow.
Your eyes look worn,
          like you haven’t slept in years.
Do you even remember
          who you are?
Still I give you the coffee
          that you might love more than me.
So I can sleep next to you
          while you stay up at night.

(A Symphony in the Air)

She passed
and the air forgot its name.
A trail of fire, wrapped in flame.
Not footsteps, no… she left a bloom,
a whispered spell, a haunting plume.

Jasmine bruised with midnight spice,
vanilla smoke and crushed device,
amber kissed by ancient lore,
and musk like sin behind a door.

It wasn’t scent, it was a hymn,
a chorus pouring from her skin.
Each note a memory, raw, refined,
a fingerprint the soul designed.

It danced on silk, it clung to bone,
it made the silence overgrown.
You smelled her once, now every room
aches for that ghost…
that perfume.

It wasn’t soft… it struck like wine,
first sweet, then heat, then serpentine.
It woke the dark, it stirred the bed,
it crowned the lips where words had fled.

Men forgot their vows that night.
Women wept with pure delight.
Time itself stood still to breathe
a scent like that will never leave.

It lives in coats, in creaking floors,
on letters slipped through velvet doors.
You lose her, yes - she slips too soon.
But you will always keep her perfume.

Climbing and descending winding hills and mountain ranges,
Crossing valleys, threading through narrow paths,
Blowing through twisted branches and soft leaves,
Raising flags, straining stubborn masts,
Pushing heavy clouds, tearing the darkened sky,
Driving restless currents and seas —
Overcoming the void.

But at times, it quiets into a gentle breeze,
Giving way to comforting stillness,
To the humid silence of a blazing day,
To the star-strewn, domed moonlit night,
To the morning bathed in ascending sun.

Among agitations, flows, pauses, rhythms and courses,
In a delirious tempo of surges and setbacks,
Time dwells —
In the moment, the age, the occasion,
In cycles that return like seasons,
Like the expectation of light in the auroras.

Entwined with feelings,
It arises in the fleeting peak of joy,
Like an eternal farewell embrace;
In the echoing longing of an instant,
Like the anguish of a vibrant memory;
In the stifling anxiety of what’s to come,
Like an agonizing rush of adrenaline;
In the fear that paralyzes and silences,
Like the despairing terror of war;
In the fleeting rest of happiness,
Like a lasting repose of gentle promises;
In the scars left by conflict,
Like intrigue nurtured by indifference;
In the forgiveness that wounds and frees,
Yet leaves murmuring scars.

Time flows through it all,
Sometimes dragging, sometimes rushing through
The passing hours —
Impersonal, unending,
Like the changing landscape;
At times intimate and brief,
Like the clearing of thoughts
That only time knows how to overcome.

We danced in fire, we spoke in stars,
Our whispers rode on midnight cars.
Your laugh would bloom where silence grew,
And every dream began with you.

But now your words fall cold and thin,
Like echoes lost in rusted tin.
Your hand once burned to meet with mine
Now slips away, devoid of sign.

We used to kiss like time stood still,
Now even touch feels forced, uphill.
We shared a world, a sacred art
But this is a far cry from the start.

No storms, no fights, just quiet air,
And all the passion stripped to bare.
We smile on cue, we play the part
Yet love has slipped out from the heart.

So here we are, not near, not far
Two strangers orbiting one star.
And though you’re here, I fall apart
This love’s a far cry from the start.

You look better when I close my eyes.
Because I’m a horrible person
a horrible person who still thinks of her when I’m with you.
Yet again, when I’m with her, who I was gets lost.
because honestly, I was broken
—She broke me—
I am broken, but you’ve seen me as whole.

There is an ache that folds
like paper
soaked through,
crumpled in the cold,
collapsing
centre
of me.

With nothing more than a whisper,
it returns,
as if just moments before
I suffered this mortal injury.

Its power unbound—
ready to consume me
if I let it.

Some days,
I beg this ache to vanish,
leave me hollow, free.

It guards me from healing,
a quiet, faithful dog,
licking old wounds
to keep them open.

I sink into this quicksand of memory,
then fossilize in grief’s amber—
trapped, not treasured.

How can I let it go,
when its grip
is all I have known?

And yet, I breathe it still,
not by choice,
but because forgetting
would mean losing the last of it.

I move through sorrow’s veil,
a torn page curling on wind,
almost-free.

In the hush between heartbeats,
I hear the echo of your laughter
a memory not yet made.

You, a whisper in the wind,
me, chasing shadows of a smile.

If you feel this too,
leave a word behind
let’s write our story together.