There was once a presence—
not quite a girl, not merely a boy,
but a light the soul recognized
before the mind could give it form.
A breath beside your breath.
A knowing.
You did not call it love.
Love was still sleeping in the language.
But the stars leaned closer when they walked beside you,
and silence learned your names.
Time, like wind over sand,
carried both of you into the world’s forgetting.
The path split gently—no storm, no blame—
just the hush of a door that closes
without ever having opened.
Still, they remain—
not in photographs,
not in the echo of old songs—
but in the pauses between thoughts,
in the space where longing becomes a kind of prayer.
Some love does not arrive to stay.
It arrives to awaken.
It leaves no footprints,
yet walks with you for lifetimes.
You may never meet again.
But when dusk drapes the fields in amber hush,
When a voice you never heard calls your name inward.
What you shared was not a chapter—
but the breath before the story began.
In the end, we are all survivors,
Of our own hearts.