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When silence falls, it is your name the stars dare whisper. Each breath I draw is stitched with longing, as though the night itself were ink and I, a parchment carved by absence. No sweet sonnet could contain this ache—for love burns not bright, but deep, like a candle buried beneath winter’s breath, a vow swaddled in smoke and shadow. Your gaze is both my ruin and my reverie; even in monochrome dreams, I taste the echo of color upon your lips.

”Time may wear its iron crown, relentless in its march, yet here I remain—unraveled at the seams of your memory. If I am to be doomed, let it be by this: to want, to ache, to wait—not for return, but for remembrance. For in forgetting, true death begins.”




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There’s a part of me that never stopped orbiting you—like smoke that refuses to clear, like the echo of a name I never meant to speak aloud. I don’t know where you end and I begin anymore; it’s all blurred, like film left too long in the darkroom, soft at the edges but impossibly real. You walk into the room and gravity shifts—my breath forgets itself, the silence between us thickens into something holy.
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