Where Our Shadows Used to Meet

Where Our Shadows Used to Meet

Arman Rashid 

I walk along the path we once knew,

the stones cold beneath my feet.

The trees sway gently in the evening wind,

their leaves whispering stories we shared.

Your laughter still lingers in the air,

a ghost of warmth I cannot touch.

I reach for moments that slipped away,

but they dissolve like mist in my hands.

The sun dips low behind distant hills,

painting the sky in muted gold.

I remember our shadows stretching long,

side by side, but never truly ours.

The river hums quietly beside me,

carrying echoes of our silent talks.

I trace patterns in the fading light,

hoping to find pieces of you again.

Every corner of this place remembers,

even the stones bear your name in silence.

I speak to the wind, and it answers softly,

as if holding the weight of our absence.

The night arrives slowly, folding the sky,

and the stars witness what we cannot say.

I linger where our shadows once met,

feeling your presence in the empty air.

And in that stillness, I realize:

some meetings leave marks even after we vanish.