🕊 A Found Page from the River’s Memory
(Date unknown. The ink seems to have bled from within the paper.)
I remember her —
 not as face or form,
 but as the warmth between breaths
 when the river paused to listen.
Memory is not the chain she feared;
 it is the current itself.
 When I let go of her hand,
 I did not lose her.
 I simply learned
 to hold differently.
Every drop that touches her skin
 knows my name —
 not because I left it there,
 but because I became what touched her.
The wind still carries
 the scent she once called mine —
 sandalwood, oud, a whisper of rain —
 though it no longer belongs to a man.
 It belongs to the space
 between her heartbeat and the world.
Love did not end in the mist.
 It widened.
I walk where light forgets its edge.
I wait without waiting.
And when she looks into the water
and sees only motion —
that is me, remembering her.