I carry the sound of vanished rooms
the warmth of tables I cannot return to
and the names that still live softly in my mind

I walk through the day with a broken light
as if every step is a question and every silence is listening back

There is no map for this kind of ache only the slow geography of memory and the heart, still knocking at closed doors

I have not forgotten the laughter or the hands that shaped my small beginnings or the sweet smoke of ordinary miracles

They live now in the distance behind me not lost, only changed by time not gone, only unreachable for a while

So I stand here and let the sorrow speak and I do not ask it to leave too quickly because love is sometimes this: staying

What of my heart……