The love that refused to fade.

Love is a knife that you twist inside yourself

What do you do with love that refuses to fade?

It’s not a river anymore, it’s a puddle after the storm,

quiet, unmoving,

reflecting ghosts of skies that once were blue.

It doesn’t heal, it doesn’t burn,

it just waits,

like the scent of rain on concrete long after the rain has gone.

The silence after you left hums like static,

filling the corners of my room.

Every song I play sounds like something you’d hum,

every word I write bends toward your name.

I’ve tried to drain you out of my veins,

but you’re the kind of ache that grows gentler, not weaker.

Some nights, I still talk to the air,

pretend you’re listening on the other side of the wind.

It’s stupid, I know,

but loss has a way of making writers out of tramps 

And I, too, am still begging,

To not talk about you,

Like it's a prayer of mercy

To not feel your absence like a dying man left to die on these cold streets

And to remember you like the wish I was never granted.