She moved between hours as though they were veils, lifting one, abandoning another, never belonging to the moment that held her

The air bent softly in her passing, as if time itself feared to touch her form: I was left among the remnants

The dim corridor of echoes and unspoken farewells, where her absence gathered like dusk upon the walls

No voice, no step, no turning glance remained, only the delicate tyranny of memory

Yet her perfume endures

It clings to the silence with a cruel tenderness, a ghost more faithful than her fleeting presence

I breathe it still, against my better judgment, as one might press a wound to feel it live again

And in this quiet ruin of longing, I have made a strange and solemn peace. For what is love, if not a visitation

brief, resplendent, and merciless leaving grace and sorrow indistinguishable.