You were never, nor will you ever be— shadow of sleep, hope eternally composed, apocryphal shroud of endless nights, scented dissolution of sunlit shadows. We fashioned it ourselves: that love, pure poetry, splendid communion, gleaming in dementia, the eternal covenant of shared verses, a full life beyond all commentary. Over time, as we arranged our solitudes, we stumble upon truth already tainted— that reality springs forth from the unthinking soul, from a bitter selfhood of its own, without terrors or triumphs, without verses, without ruin, an elusive self, deaf to the murmur of others. So what remains is my knowledge of shadowed solitudes, as the obscure mirror of a suffering self, who, by haunting the dark passages, surrendered all faith in the love you had conjured.
# Love-time Come, let us go to that place where the river bends in silver, where the evening arrives on soft feet and the world grows tender. There, beneath the arch of old trees, time moves differently— slower, like honey, like breath held between heartbeats. I will tell you things I have never told anyone: how loneliness tastes like salt, how hope feels against the palms. You will listen with your whole body, and I will know it— the way a flower knows the sun, without seeing, without thinking. We will sit until the stars come out, until the boundary between us grows thin as paper, thin as the membrane between worlds. And if the night asks us questions, we will answer with our hands, with our silences, with the grammar only lovers understand. This is the time we've been waiting for— not the time of clocks, but the time of becoming, the time when two people learn to breathe as one. Come. The river is calling. The evening is ready. The world, for this moment, is ours.
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