Two friends pass by me, holding hands, their laughter filling the air. I watch them, and in an instant, recollections flood my mind, of a time when you, too, smiled at me in the same way. Your hand in mine, running away for miles—through yards, scapes, meadows, beneath endless skies. I remember the mischievous twinkle in your eyes as we ran, free and wild, without a care in the world. But then, you dropped your hand and ran ahead, leaving me behind, and I wondered—why had you gone?
You were so intimate to me, your presence in my life as clear as the words in a book. I read your eyes like an open page, knowing what they said even before you spoke. We had our moments, like the empty bottle of ink, the nib of a broken pen. “Had so much work to do, I had forgotten,” you would say, with that playful grimace. “Out of stock of papers,” you’d complain. But I knew. It was never about work. It was about us, and the quiet excuses we made, the moments we let slip away.
Now, the same hands that once held mine are still—forever gone. I had spoken to you once before it happened, before inevitable death took you away from me. How I wish I could have said more. The pens and papers lie on the table now, untouched, with no one to write to. The everlasting companion you left behind is the feeling of incompleteness, the sadness that lingers in every corner of my mind.
I am a poet, always with ink in stock, yet no words seem enough. This deadly silence surrounds me, closing in on my heart and soul. The yards and scapes are still there, stretching for miles, but there are no complaints, no acts of mischief, no smiles to brighten the emptiness. Only the haunting echo of what once was.