“In the Language of Almost”

I write in raindrops, quiet and small, Letters on windows you don’t see at all. I speak in pauses, in glances away, In the hush between what I want to say.

Your shadow lingers like a half-closed door, You walk in, you smile, but stay nevermore. I keep a cup warm for hands that don’t come Still, I pour love like morning sun.

There’s a thread, invisible, taut between, You in your silence, and me in between. I sew my longing into the seams Of your name, like a prayer no one deems.

You look at love like it’s written in stone, But mine is soft, a garden overgrown. Wild, and aching, it twists through the cracks, Even when all you do is turn your back.

I want to keep loving, but it’s thinning now This candle flickers; I wonder how. Still, I sit in the room you never enter, With my whole heart orbiting your absent center.

Not all will hear this quiet scream, It’s stitched in metaphors, veiled in dream. But maybe you’ll feel it in a song, a sky And wonder… who kept loving when you passed by?