This Is Not a Goodbye

You said you’d leave, but not too far,

You promised peace beneath one star.

You left your shoes, your coat, your jar—

You left your scent, you left a scar.

I asked the wind if you still care,

It answered low, with hands so bare.

It brushed my cheek, but you weren’t there—

Just silence sleeping in the air.

I made your tea, the way you like,

With lemon peel and honey spike.

I waited long, near dusk and pike,

But time just stared, and thoughts would strike.

Your photo leans against the wall,

A laugh still trapped inside the hall.

The echoes grow, then shrink, then fall—

Your name, it waits for me to call.

I found your note beneath the bed,

The ink half-blurred, the paper red.

I knew each word your silence said,

I read it slow, and then I bled.

The mirror knows I’m still not whole,

It shows the cracks inside my soul.

It whispers lies I can't control,

And breaks me gently, role by role.

This isn't grief, it’s something deep,

A room where night forgets to sleep.

Where shadows walk, and memories weep,

And promises no longer keep.

I light a match, but not for flame,

Just for the warmth inside your name.

The air is still, but not the same—

Without you here, there’s no real frame.

This is not a word you say,

It’s not a debt, it’s not a pay.

It’s not a place, it’s not a way—

It’s just the heart that wants to stay.

The door still creaks the way it did,

As if it knows what time has hid.

Each corner breathes where you once stood,

Your silence carved in worn-out wood.

I water plants you used to tend,

They bloom, they fall, they rise, they bend.

A season loops, and still won't end—

Like grief that learns to just pretend.

A laugh escapes me now and then,

Surprised to feel like me again.

But joy feels borrowed from back when—

Still stained with you in every grain.

The stars tonight are far and small,

Like memories that rarely call.

I wait beneath their quiet thrall,

And write your name against it all.

So let the sky forget your face,

I’ll keep you here in softer place—

Where ink can’t fade, and time can’t trace,

And loss becomes a form of grace.

The clock still hums its broken song,

It ticks, it stops, then drags along.

Each second feels both right and wrong,

Since you’ve been gone, since you’ve been gone.

The curtains move as if they know,

The shape of you, the way you’d go.

Their dance is soft, their pace is slow,

A rhythm only ghosts could show.

The floorboards ache beneath my feet,

Where once your step and mine would meet.

And in the quiet, incomplete,

Your shadow lingers, bittersweet.

So here you are, in line and rhyme,

Still walking softly through my time.

You’re in the light, in ash, in air—

In every pause, I find you there.

You are the breath between each word,

The silence that still must be heard.

Not gone, not lost — just out of view,

Yet everything still feels like you.

This is not a goodbye. Not then, not now—

You live in every sacred vow.

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