The Scent of What Was

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In the quiet between my lines,

your fragrance lingers undefined-

a whisper I trapped in ink and time,

a scent that softly binds me.


From spaces where my words once grew,

your silence spreads like dawn’s first light,

lying at my feet, silent and true,

a ghost of what once felt right.


I feel your presence in the unspoken-

a love I know is softly broken,

a truth in silence finely woven,

a memory I’ve never spoken.


In the hush my heart defines,

where echoes learn to breathe again,

I trace the shape your shadow makes-

the curve of loss, the weight of when.


Still, my ink keeps reaching out-

a pulse I cannot reconcile,

writing what my soul remembers

where grief has grown fragile.


Even silence has a voice-

soft as dew on morning’s skin,

a language only ache can learn,

a truth that speaks from deep within.


In the quiet’s gentle hold,

where memories unfold for me alone,

your shadow dances, soft and cold-

a story I can’t fully own.


My ink, a vessel of the past,

tries to bridge what cannot last,

each stroke a whisper slow and vast,

a longing I still hold fast.


Even in the hush, I hear a voice-

a melody of silent pain,

carving echoes into my veins,

a truth that softly reigns.


In the depths where sorrow dwells,

my heart’s quiet language swells,

a symphony of silent spells

where love and loss entwine and dwell.


My poetry is a fragile thread-

a bridge where words have fled;

yet in the silence, softly said,

my soul’s true voice is born again.


And when the final page is turned

and all the ink has lived and burned,

my heart still keeps what it has learned-

the lessons silence earned.


For grief is not a thing that ends

but folds itself and gently bends,

becoming breath my soul defends-

a truth that time befriends.


So I let the quiet keep its place-

a tender room my heart can trace,

where memory wears a gentle face

and loss becomes embrace.


Even when the words fall through

and all that’s left is dusk and dew,

the silent air still speaks of you-

in echoes soft and true.


And I, the keeper of this ink,

stand on the poem’s fragile brink,

writing what I cannot think

but only feel and drink.


In the hush all poems choose,

where longing paints the hidden hues,

love is not something I can lose-

only learn to carry through.


"My vision of life is my deepest deformation; it fails to bestow upon me even the courtesy of meaning.”Jayankarthika







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