What was once lost
cannot be explained in long poems.
No amount of stanzas
can hold the silence it left behind.

It can only be heard
in the breeze that presses gently against you
on an evening walk—
that soft resistance,
echoing a voice
that used to be
your favorite sound.

Or
you’ll see it
in places you once held sacred.
A room.
A bench.
The shadow of laughter against a wall.

It will reach for your hand
like nothing ever went wrong.
And her arms—
they’ll still wrap around you
in memory
as if they planned to stay forever.