In the mirrored halls of our shared past,
your face is an old photograph,
framed in the corner of my mind,
where dust settles on the glass of memory.
Our home is a museum of echoes,
where every room whispers your name
in a language I no longer understand,
Each corner was a relic of a time when we knew how to speak.
Your touch, once a map of hidden trails
on the landscape of my skin,
has become a compass spinning aimlessly,
seeking a north that no longer exists.
The moments we once sculpted with care
are now statues in a gallery of distance,
each touch is an artful attempt
to breathe life into figures frozen in marble.
We navigate a sea of everyday gestures,
each one a wave crashing into a shore
where intimacy has washed away,
leaving only the driftwood of habitual touch.
Your voice is a distant thunder,
rumbling through the storm clouds of routine,
its resonance barely reaching
the shores of my listening ears.
I remember when our conversations
were fireworks in the night sky,
each word a spark that lit up
the dark spaces between us.
Now, they are fireflies caught in a jar,
their glow a faint flicker in the twilight,
struggling to escape the confines
of a shared silence that has become our cage.
Our love, once a blazing forge,
now feels like an old lantern,
its flame struggling to catch
on the wick of our shared experiences.
I reach for your hand,
but it feels like grabbing at the mist
that rises from the morning dew,
a ghostly touch that slips through my fingers.
The echoes of our laughter
are like distant bells tolling in an abandoned church,
their sound hollow and meaningless,
a requiem for the intimacy we’ve lost.
Our intimacy is a puzzle missing pieces,
each fragment is a reminder of how the image
we once fit together has become
a jumble of shapes that no longer align.
In the quiet of our shared space,
I find myself a wanderer,
tracing the outlines of old maps
that no longer guide me to where we used to be.
We are two dancers in a room
where the music has stopped,
our movements out of sync,
Each step is a miscalculation in a choreography of disconnection.
The room we share is a canvas
where the colors of our love have run,
creating streaks of indifference
that mar the once vibrant picture of us.
I look at you and see a familiar face
that now feels like a painting
hung in a gallery I no longer visit,
a piece I recognize but don’t quite understand.
We are actors in a play with missing lines,
each performance is a rehearsal
for a script that has faded from our grasp,
leaving us to improvise in the ruins of our past.
Our touches are the final scenes of a film
where the plot has dissolved into fragments,
each frame is a reminder of the story
that we can no longer follow.
In the end, we are two characters
in a novel with pages turned too quickly,
the ink of our shared narrative
blurring into the fog of what was once our story.
Here we are,
familiar faces with foreign touches,
wandering through the remnants
of a love that has become its ghost.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.