A Quiet Flame at Sixty-Five

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At sixty-five, the years unfold,

A tapestry of stories told.

But in my heart, a truth remains,

Through passing suns and gentle rains.


You don't know I still love you,

Though the world has moved and spun—

Through silver strands and softened lines,

My heart has never run.


You don't know, and never knew,

This steadfast love, forever true.

It lives within, a quiet flame,

Whispering softly, your dear name.


The seasons came and wandered by,

Our lives in separate streams,

But still you linger in my thoughts,

In memories and dreams.


We never spoke of certain things,

Perhaps we never could—

But silence isn't empty when

It's filled with all we should.


Sometimes a scent, a turn of phrase,

A song from distant, younger days,

Can open up that hidden door,

And I am twenty, wanting more.


I see your face in strangers' eyes,

Or catch a glimpse against the skies.

A phantom touch, a whispered sound,

Where quiet comfort can be found.


Though seasons turn and time may race,

Love finds its own eternal space.

And here I stand, at sixty-five,

Still loving you, and feeling alive.


If ever in a quiet hour,

You wonder, just the same—

Know someone holds you in their soul,

Still softly speaking your name.

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