In the Quiet Company of Absence

You did not leave all at once. You faded—like light withdrawing from the room,

like breath vanishing from glass.

Still, your shadow clings to the walls,

refusing to die.

Your cup remembe

rs the shape of your hand,

the towel keeps your scent.

Even the lamp hums your name

when I turn it on.

What am I to do with a world

that insists on remembering you?

At night, I lie beside your absence,

listening to its slow breathing—

a tide that ebbs but never returns.

Your silence is not empty,

but full of everything you were.

They say time will heal,

but I no longer wish to be healed.

Let the wound stay open,

so light may enter,

so love may still come through.

You are gone, yet I meet you everywhere—

in the hush of curtains,

in the prayer of folded hands,

in every breath that calls your name.

You have turned to light,

and I am learning to see you differently—

invisible, patient, near.

The soul does not lose what it loves;

it only learns

to love what it cannot hold.

Stay, beloved—

in the dust, in the dusk,

in the quiet company of what remains.

Stay—

like a flame beneath the ashes,

alive, unseen, eternal.

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