When the Sky

I still remember how your laugh

cut through the quiet like sunlight chasing dusk,

the kind of moment that makes clocks irrelevant—

where time trips,

and spills into the cracks between our footsteps.

You never walked beside me—

not really—

you floated,

like something the world couldn’t hold down for long,

telling stories with your eyes

before your mouth ever got the chance to.

It felt like something ancient,

older than names,

older than even our bones remembered,

as if we’d met before

under stranger stars

or maybe in the pause between dreams.

We never said it,

but we both knew:

some things don’t need to be spoken

to be real.

But then—

it shifted.

Not like a storm,

but like a mirror slowly forgetting

the face it once reflected.

You stopped reaching

for the moon in my voice,

and I,

I let the silence learn your shape.

Still, I catch echoes of you

in the things that shouldn’t matter—

the way train lights stutter through rain,

or when I catch my breath

before finishing a sentence

because I used to leave space for you in the pause.

And maybe that’s love,

not the firework,

but the ember—

quiet,

persistent,

half-buried under ash,

yet warm enough to remind me

we burned once.

Now, I walk unfamiliar paths

with familiar ghosts,

and sometimes—

if the wind’s in the right mood—

I swear the world bends

just enough

to make it feel

like you’re still listening.