After you left, the house kept its rooms—
but life abandoned every wall and door.
Only your echo stayed, a quiet ache,
and the slow, steady fall of my tears.

You never turned, never called, never left a trace;
only the memory that learned your voice by heart.
You loved poems—so I planted verses in your name,
each line a lantern burning through the dark.

I write because the world forgets to wait;
I write because your absence taught me how to speak.
These pages are the last home of what we were—
my small, fierce proof that you once lived here.

If ever a wind should find your eyes, read them—
my last letters of longing, folded into rhyme.
Until then I keep our days in ink and ache,
and wait with a gentle hope that never dies.

— Usha Maniar