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There are moments in life when we are visited not by people, but by presences…… memories, shadows, unfinished sentences. We meet them not in grand events, but in quiet instants when our soul pauses, uncertain whether it’s about to shatter or be remade. Love, loss, time, and the unnameable weight of existence press gently but relentlessly on our chest. This poem is born from that pressure……. a reflection on the invisible threads that tie us to what we do not understand, and perhaps never will.

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I sat where echoes never age,
Where footsteps fade before they fall,
And time bent softly at the edge….
A place untouched by names at all.

A hush stood still between two hearts,
One made of blood, one made of mist.
One reached with hands, the other thought,
That touch was something once we missed.

What is it we remember most……
The voice, the warmth, the final stare?
Or is it just the way they leave,
A shape of silence in the air?

A question forms, then fades away,
Not asked to learn, but just to feel.
Not every wound becomes a scar,
Not every scar forgets to heal.

Some truths are told without a sound,
Some meetings pass without a name.
Not every loss is born from death,
Not every closeness ends in flame.

We speak in language never taught,
A grammar woven out of pain.
We walk beside what isn’t there,
And still we call it love again.

Does the unseen remember us,
The way we hold its ghost at night?
Or are we mirrors facing dark,
Reflecting back our need for light?

A figure made of cloud and ash,
A thought that dressed itself in grace.
I reached…… not out of hope or faith…..
But for the absence of a face.

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Perhaps we never truly meet the ones we long for. Perhaps they are reflections……. of grief, of grace, of all the unanswered questions we carry like folded letters in our chest. And yet, we reach. Not because we expect a hand in return, but because reaching itself is human…….. an act of defiance against the silence that waits at the edge of everything. In that reaching, we become real.

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