The Spaces You Left Empty

You used to like a girl,
her shadow crossing yours each dawn—
a quiet flame you couldn’t name.
Every morning, your tongue turned to stone,
mute as the sidewalk underfoot.  


In your head,
you talked for hours—
her laughter spilling like sunlight,
her voice a river you’d never touch.
You promised: Next time, I’ll speak,
but next became next,
a chain of missed heartbeats.
  

And there she sits now—
pristine in a corner of your heart,
locked like a garden you never entered,
untouched by dust or doubt,
a perfect relic you mock yourself for keeping,
How absurd, this shrine of silence,
this careful polishing of a ghost—
while your own hands gather dust?


Did she ever notice your shadow?
Did she, like you, long for connection?
Or did you carve meaning from nothing,
turn a passing glance into an unspoken plea,
mistake indifference for something more?

 
She remained flawless,
untouched by your silence—
a constellation you traced
but never reached.
Did she leave signs,
or did you fashion them from longing?
Did she ever turn to look,
or was she only passing through?
Her brightness lingers—
in the spaces you left empty.