He walks beneath the hush of stars,
a ghost of vows the wind still keeps.
Each step, a psalm in battle scars.
Each silence—where the sorrow sleeps.
They said “Move on, the past has died,”
but how to mourn what’s still alive?
A phantom curled up deep inside—
no grave for that which did survive.
She lives in him, like ancient ink
etched on the marrow, not the skin.
No prayer can scrub it out, no drink
undo the war still fought within.
Two years have passed—or maybe less,
for time plays tricks on souls that ache.
He counts his days by tenderness
he fakes by laughing wide awake.
He did not beg. He did not plead.
He simply bore the weight of grace.
Not out of lack, nor selfish need,
but just to never lose her face.
He’s changed—by storms, by fire, by steel.
He’s not the man who lost her then.
He’s built of something raw and real,
but still too soft to speak again.
Some nights, his pride climbs high enough—
his chest swells with a lion’s heart.
He swears, “One message should be tough…
just one could tear the night apart.”
But no—his tongue becomes a stone.
His hands, they freeze above the screen.
For peace is earned, not merely known,
and words, once spent, can’t stay unseen.
It’s not that he has lost his fire.
It’s not that he’s too shy to call.
He walks with poise, with pure desire,
and power sculpted from the fall.
He’s learned to tame his brightest flare,
not out of fear—but discipline.
He’d rather rot in silent prayer
than trespass where she once had been.
His poems—his pathetic reach.
His rhymes—the cries behind the mask.
This verse? A graveyard he can’t breach.
His courage? In the strength not to ask.
She does not call. He does not write.
And still, she echoes every night.
In words unsaid and songs unheard,
in memories blurred but still upright.
He honors peace the way monks vow
to drink the storm and feed the flame.
He walks alone beneath that plow
of “I still love, but won’t reclaim.”
And though the world may never hear
the ache behind his silent art,
he writes her name in every tear
he hides beneath a sculpted heart.
A man who chose the sacred pain
of loving loud without a sound—
to never speak, to not explain,
yet worship all she left unfound.
He could return. He has the means.
But in his silence, there's a creed:
“Disturb her peace? By no machines.
I’d rather bleed than plant that seed.”
A man in love with silence still—
a myth, a whisper, half a plea.
He walks beneath the weight and will
to let her go…
and never be.
