Moments of Solitude

In the still corners of the evening,

when even the lamp hum quiets,

he finds himself alone

with a gentle ache he doesn’t resist.

It’s not sorrow, exactly.

It’s the shape of her absence -

warm, remembered,

like the last echo of laughter

just before sleep.

 

She’s not here tonight.

But she hasn’t left, either.

Her presence lingers

in the pause between thoughts,

in the urge to share a quiet something

with no one but her.

 

It’s the way his chest hums

when he hears a song she loves,

or how he smiles at the memory

of her smirking at his crocs

 

Little things.

They bloom in his solitude

like jasmine in moonlight—

soft, persistent, fragrant with memory.

 

Even in his solitude, she is there.. always.

 

 

Done