When Love Becomes a Memory
Love ends when poetry surrenders its ink to the fading light of eyes. It retreats, like a weary traveler, from the once vibrant gaze that held galaxies within its depths. The verses, once woven with stardust, unravel into whispers lost in the wind.
Windows, once portals to shared sunsets and whispered secrets, now stand as mere frames—cold, transparent barriers. The stars, once constellations of promises, shrink into distant dots, their luminance dimmed by the passage of time.
Dreams, once bridges between our waking hours, now carve an empty space—an interval where longing echoes. The warmth of touch becomes a memory, a phantom sensation lingering in the hollows of our skin.
Love’s demise is not sudden; it’s the gradual erosion of arid recollections. Bonds once tender harden into brittle relics. Thorned memories cling, captive in the chambers of our hearts, and wounds, once cultivated by shared laughter and tears, scar over.
Distances emerge—between us and life, between us and the other. The map of our affections redrawn, continents drifting apart. We navigate the chasms, tracing the fault lines of what was and what will never be again.
And what of the love that defies finality? The love that lingers, suspended in the interstice of existence? It no longer breathes, yet its echo reverberates—a haunting refrain. Perhaps it never died; it merely transformed, shedding its corporeal form.
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The boundary lies in the silence—the unsung verses, the unspoken names. The absence of “forever” etches its truth. We were once intertwined, but now we orbit separate suns. The ache of what once was, and what can never be, paints the canvas of our souls.
True love, they say, never dies. But perhaps it ceases to be, not in its essence, but in the way we perceive it. It becomes a constellation, distant yet enduring, a celestial memory stitched into the fabric of time.
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May this prose honor the beauty of poetry and evoke the bittersweet dance of love and loss. ??
Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer