Ashes

The heavens once remembered our names

before time learned the language of forgetting.

The stars stitched silver promises

into the velvet skin of the night,

and every sunrise carried

the quiet certainty

that forever could not be broken.

Then the seasons grew weary.

The gardens where we laughed

became fields of brittle silence,

their blossoms folding into dust

like prayers left unanswered.

The wind wandered through abandoned halls,

collecting echoes of voices

that no longer belonged to anyone,

while the moon watched

with a sorrow too ancient for tears.

I searched for you

through the ruins of forgotten summers,

where every shattered stone

still carried the warmth of your touch.

I gathered memories

like fragile embers,

holding them against my chest

until they burned my hands,

for even pain

was kinder than forgetting.

The world called them ashes.

But ashes are only the final breath

of something that once burned

with impossible beauty.

They are proof

that love existed,

that hearts dared to become suns,

that even eternity

could catch fire.

If I must carry your absence,

let it become a constellation

no darkness can erase.

Let every broken dream

become another star,

every farewell another dawn,

every scar another story

written across my soul.

For one day,

when the last clock falls silent

and time itself surrenders,

the wind will scatter

these ashes of eternity

across a newborn sky,

and from them

will bloom a light

so gentle,

so endless,

that even forever

will remember our names again.

There is a place

where forgotten souls rest—

not in heaven,

not beneath the earth,

but in the quiet distance

between one heartbeat

and the next.

I found you there.

Not as flesh,

nor as a dream,

but as the ghost

of every word

we never had the courage to speak.

Your silence wrapped around me

like winter around an empty forest,

beautiful enough to admire,

merciless enough to survive.

The years became rivers,

washing away cities,

crowns,

and kingdoms,

yet they could not erase

the shape of your shadow

from the chambers of my heart.

People believe

eternity is endless life.

They are mistaken.

Eternity is loving someone

long after the universe

has forgotten why the stars were born.

It is speaking to empty skies,

hoping the wind

still remembers your name.

It is carrying a flame

through endless storms,

knowing it will someday

become ash—

yet refusing to let it die.

So I became a keeper

of beautiful ruins.

I collected broken promises

like fallen feathers,

pressed faded moments

between the pages of forgotten books,

and built a cathedral

from everything

that could never be returned.

Its walls were made of longing.

Its windows were carved from hope.

Its altar was my heart,

still waiting

for footsteps

that would never echo again.

When my final breath

is carried away by dawn,

do not search for a grave.

Search instead

for the ash

floating through golden sunlight,

for the quiet breeze

that brushes your face

without asking to be remembered.

That will be me—

the last ember

of a love

that refused to disappear,

the final witness

to a story

written not in ink,

but in the ashes

of eternity.

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