Inkless Songs-The Lotus of My Unwritten Words

 

Once, you were my only poem.

You were the meaning and the letters in every line.

Each breath I took rhymed with your name,

Each silence between words echoed your touch.

I wrote you into sunsets and folded you into the wind,

Loving you in verses I never dared speak aloud.

Lost in the rhythms that merged with you, I forgot myself.

Your presence became my punctuation —

A comma when I hesitated,

A full stop when I fell.

I blurred between the stanzas and your smile,

Erased my own story to make room for yours.

When my throat choked and words ran dry, I understood

That even poetry cannot mend a breaking heart.

That metaphors falter when reality sets in.

You were not a lyric — just a lingering hum

In a song that no longer plays.

My poems were merely tear stains, devoid of script,

Bleeding on pages I never meant to keep.

I had confused your silence for depth,

Your distance for mystery,

Your absence for art.

The ink, once vibrant, had dissolved into salt and sorrow,

Leaving behind a barren landscape of what was.

That day, I knew you were far away from me,

Not a muse, but a memory fading in lowercase.

Not a flame, but the shadow it left behind.

Just an inkless pen.

Once held tightly in my trembling hands,

Now useless — still shaped like hope,

But unable to write even your name.

 "I regret adding these lines; I think they might be hurting her sometimes."

Yet, from the murky depths where my tears pooled,

Where the shattered fragments of my verses lay,

A lotus began to stir.

Not born of your light, nor nurtured by your memory,

But from the fertile ground of my own resilience,

A quiet, determined bud, pushing towards the sun.

Slowly, it unfolds, petal by delicate petal,

A silent promise of healing,

A new poem, unburdened by your name,

Written in the tender light of dawn.