I do not carve your shadow in words,

I let the ink breathe your presence;

I do not summon your image on paper

I let language dissolve into your being...

Every letter bleeds with desire,

each syllable aches like a wound;

Every clause aches like longing,

each word carries the weight of your absence;

Every thought turns restless in your name,

each phrase confesses what silence hides;

Every stanza trembles like a secret....

These are not verses I write—

they are fragments of a heart,

broken and restless,

seeking refuge in your name...

And even when the poem surrenders its breath,

I remain unfinished—

for you are not a memory to be written,

neither are you a moment;

for you are the endlessness

in which I lose myself...... 

I stitched my soul within her laughter—and it slipped away,

I thought forever was mine to master—yet it slipped away.

The night was kind, it soothed my grief beneath its veil;

The morning opened its cruel window—and it slipped away.

Her eyes once promised shelter, galaxies in their flame,

I reached for stars, they turned to ashes—thus it slipped away.

I carved her name upon my pulse to outlast time,

But time itself betrayed my keeping—and it slipped away.

The years dissolve, the faces fade like whispers in rain,

But sorrow stays, a faithful tenant—still it slipped away.

I drank remembrance, bitter-sweet, like fire and wine,

It scorched my throat, but fed my hunger—and it slipped away.

O heart, you thought forever bowed to mortal hands,

But forever walks a vagrant’s journey—yet it slipped away.