There is a place in me
where I don’t speak.
Not because I have nothing to say —
but because every word
would only be a shadow
of what you truly are to me.
This place…
is where I sit beside you
without being near you,
where I close my eyes
and feel your presence
like the hush before dawn.
I do not write your name,
but the air does.
On windows,
on water,
on flowers.
Do you know,
sometimes my silence trembles —
not because it’s weak,
but because it holds
too much of you.
The world keeps asking
if I will ever speak of love.
But what they don’t know is
I already have.
Every time I stayed quiet
and looked toward the sky
with your name untold.
You ask me nothing,
and yet —
my silence answers you.
It tells you how I wait,
not with hope,
but with knowing.
My silence
has memorised your footsteps without sound,
your eyes without sight,
and your touch —
without touching.
You may never read this,
and still every pause between these lines belongs to you.
My silence is not emptiness.
It is a room where only your name echoes —
slowly,
softly,
like a prayer unheard but felt.
Every word I write
wishes it could touch you,
but fails.
So I write again.
Because even this distance
feels holy if it leads to you.
