I still sit where the morning waited for us,

though the sun no longer breaks open the day the way it used to.

The colors come softer now, hesitant,

as if they, too, feel the absence settling in the spaces we left behind.

I trace the memory of your hand in mine

the way light once traced its path across your face.

There was a time when silence felt full,

when even the smallest breath between us

held meaning too delicate for words.

Now the quiet stretches long and thin,

a fragile veil between what was and what remains.

I reach for the warmth we once gathered so effortlessly

in our simple choreography of mornings,

coffee, bread, touch, presence.

The window still stands witness,

its glass dimmed but patient,

holding the ghosts of colors we once shared.

And though night lingers where sunrise used to bloom,

I wait.

Because somewhere beneath the weight of all this stillness,

I believe the light remembers us,

and will find its way home again.