“Echoes of the Unseen”

In the hollow corridors of yesterday,

I wander, barefoot on the shards of memory,

Tracing the silhouettes of dreams long vanished,

Where whispers of your laughter linger like

The tender residue of forgotten rain.

Time, the relentless architect,

Carves canyons into the soul,

And every echo of your absence

Beats against the ribs, a silent drum

Of relentless yearning.

I remember the quiet afternoons,

Sunlight draped across your hair,

And how the world paused,

Beneath the gentle tyranny of your gaze.

Even the wind seemed deferential,

Caressing our fingers entwined

As though it, too, feared the fracture of that moment.

Yet, life is a cruel poet,

Composing elegies in the ink of separation.

The days fell into themselves,

One upon another like snow on a mourning tomb,

And I—adrift in the residue of “what was”—

Could only count the absence,

Like beads in a rosary

Praying for impossible resurrection.

How strange it is, the architecture of grief:

A cathedral of invisible walls,

Where each heartbeat is a candle flickering

Against shadows that do not belong.

I speak to you in sighs,

To the corners of empty rooms,

And sometimes, in the silences between

The clocks, I hear your voice—

Soft, ineffable,

As if the universe bends

To recall the warmth of its own loss.

I have wandered through streets

That remember our footprints,

And in the faces of strangers,

Sought fragments of your smile,

A cruel, gentle trick of fate

That the heart plays on the mind.

Night descends like a velvet accusation,

Stars suspended in the void

As if mocking my terrestrial grief.

I cradle the moon’s reflection in my hands,

Hoping, foolishly, that its borrowed light

Might illuminate the dark corridors of memory

Where you linger still.

And yet, in this endless ache,

A subtle revelation blooms:

Love is not the possession of presence,

But the persistence of absence,

A sacred echo resonating

Through the unmarked spaces of our lives.

Even as the world fractures and fades,

Even as the seasons carve themselves

Into the marrow of bones,

Your essence remains,

An indelible script upon the architecture of my soul.

So I walk,

Carrying both shadow and flame,

Learning to inhabit the hollow places

With grace and trembling reverence.

For grief is not defeat,

But the measure of having loved

With an unguarded heart,

And love—true, relentless, infinite—

Is the quiet defiance of eternity.

Even as silence settles

Like dust over our unfinished conversations,

Even as I touch only the ghost of your presence,

I whisper into the infinite:

You were here.

You are remembered.

And, in remembering, I am whole.