The Last Note

I met her in the sway of twilight,
the hum of a bus station alive with strangers.
She stood like dusk personified-
skin the color of midnight’s promise,
eyes that held the weight of unspoken galaxies.
Her laughter was a quiet storm,
shaking loose the edges of my solitude.

She sat beside me,
and the world shifted its rhythm.
A fleeting conversation turned eternity,
her words folding into me like pages
pressed too tightly to separate.

When she came into my life,
it was always with whispers,
love letters tucked under my pillow—
the scent of her lingering in ink
that scrawled the mysteries of her heart.
“You are the sun when I forget to rise,”
she wrote once,
and I carried those words like relics.

But love is a fragile thing,
a thread stretched across moments too fleeting.
I was the dreamer,
she, the wanderer—
a wild flame seeking winds
to carry her far beyond the mundane.
Still, I held on, hoping
that my love might anchor her spirit.

One night, I found her final note,
its edges frayed as if hesitant to exist.
The words etched deep into my soul:

"I am the sea, you the shore.
You ground me, but I must drift,
for my heart belongs to the horizon.
Do not weep for what was,
but smile for what we dared to be."

And just like that, she was gone.
The pillow beside mine grew cold,
the air emptied of her hum.
But the ache of her remains,
woven into every quiet corner of me.
I carry her still,
in the love notes I no longer find,
and the echo of a story unfinished.