Whispers of the Unsaid

Beneath the moon’s silver sigh, I wander—

a silhouette cradling shadows, half-alive.

The wind hums, Remember, remember…

but your name dissolves like smoke in my throat,

a fragile alphabet of ash and ache.

I trace the outline of your laughter in the fog,

a fossil trapped between heartbeats,

while the earth spins its quiet elegy.

Autumn leaves fall, cursive and slow,

each a letter I never sent—I’m here. Are you?

They gather at my feet, brittle and gold,

a lexicon of longing the frost will soon erase.

The stars stitch their grief into the night’s hem,

embroidering secrets too vast for daylight.

Even constellations ache with what they cannot hold—

your voice, a comet’s tail grazing my ribs,

your absence, a black hole gnawing at the sky.

Time unravels like a spool of threadbare silk.

Your ghost sits cross-legged on the porch steps,

sipping chamomile tea from a chipped blue mug.

Tick—a moth batters the lantern’s glass;

Tock—the pendulum swings, splitting hours into dust.

I carve my prayers into riverbanks,

watch the current gnaw them raw,

until silence becomes its own language.

The water whispers, Let go, let go…

but my hands are fists of stubborn stars,

clutching fragments of a shattered constellation.

Winter arrives, a surgeon with frost-tipped fingers.

It sutures the world in white, muffling echoes,

yet your shadow bleeds through the snow—

a bruise in the shape of an unfinished sonnet.

I build a fire from the kindling of old letters,

watch flames lick the ink from I miss you,

turning confession to smoke, to spectral wings.

The hearth crackles, a chorus of tiny fractures,

and I wonder if you, too, feel the burn of memory—

if your bones hum with the same restless frost.

Spring blooms reckless, a riot of contradictions.

Daffodils pierce the soil like unanswered questions;

the cherry tree weeps petals onto my windowsill.

I press one to my palm—a blush of almost,

a map of veins leading nowhere.

The rain arrives, stitching earth to sky,

and your voice lingers in its braille—

a Morse code of What if and Never again.

I stand drenched, a rootless thing,

while thunder growls the syllables of your name.

Summer drowns the world in honeyed light.

Children’s laughter pools in the streets,

but I drift through the heat like a ghost ship,

hauling cargoes of unshed tears.

At dusk, I fold the dawn into a paper crane,

send it soaring toward the horizon’s ragged edge.

It carries all we dared not say:

the weight of hands that never touched,

the grammar of glances left unparsed,

the symphony of pauses between hello and goodbye.

If love is a ghost, let it haunt gently—

let it linger in the scent of rain on pine,

in the flicker of fireflies spelling Stay.

Let it nest in the hollow of my collarbone,

a sparrow trembling with borrowed songs.

I’ll plant a garden where your silence once grew,

water it with starlight and stubborn hope.

One day, perhaps, the soil will split,

and from the cracks will rise not answers,

but a single, luminous question—

a dandelion seed adrift on the wind,

kissing the void between then and now.