The Moon Between Our Hands

I. The First Light of You

I met you

like sunrise on water—

not sudden, but certain.

Soft light slipped into the sky,

and I didn’t notice I was drowning

until you made breathing feel like worship.

Your name

was the first prayer I whispered

to the silence of my pillow.

A spell I repeated

until the night gave up its ghosts

and the morning returned you to me.

You walked in—

just a person,

and left

as the axis

my seasons now turn around.

---

II. When the Wind Remembers Your Voice

They say the wind forgets nothing—

that it carries voices,

long after lips have closed.

So I wonder,

does the breeze remember the sound

of your laughter across the lake that night?

Do the trees still sway

the way you danced barefoot

in the grass beneath a low crescent moon?

Every leaf, a witness.

Every petal, a confessional.

You spoke of dreams

as if they lived in your palms.

You let me hold your hand—

and suddenly, I held galaxies

that never belonged to me

but never left.

---

III. Letters Never Mailed

I wrote you letters

that time stole from my drawer—

letters made of ink and ache.

"Dear you..."

I started each one the same way—

as if ‘you’ were still reachable,

as if words could cross

the distance carved by fear

and unfinished conversations.

I told the moon everything

I never told you.

And she told the tides,

and they told the shores—

but not you.

You never heard

how your absence sounded like static

in a song I couldn’t stop playing.

---

IV. The Way You Loved Me

You didn’t love with fireworks—

you loved with constellations,

quiet and infinite.

Not loud,

but eternal.

You touched me

like a page in a sacred book.

You didn’t rush—

you read me,

line by line,

pause by comma,

even the margins I tried to hide.

And when I broke,

you gathered my pieces

without bleeding.

You held my scars

as if they were sacred texts.

---

V. The Language of Small Things

Love,

you taught me,

was not in grand gestures—

but in the smallest things.

The way you remembered

how I take my tea.

The pauses in your silence

that told me more than any poem could.

You gave me your hoodie

when I was cold—

not your heart.

But I found it in the pocket,

folded in a piece of paper

you never meant me to find.

And I knew.

You loved me

quietly.

But fully.

---

VI. When We Fought the Silence

Not every chapter was warm.

We burned in pages too—

shouted like fire through old wood.

But even then,

even when your eyes turned storms

and mine turned shorelines collapsing,

we stayed.

Because love isn’t the lack of breaking—

it’s the courage

to rebuild from the ruins.

You taught me

that apologies can bloom

like spring from frost.

That "I'm sorry"

can mean

"I still choose you."

---

VII. Your Smile in Other People

Sometimes I see your smile

in strangers—

a fleeting flash

on a subway train

or in the coffee line.

And my heart trips,

stutters,

spins.

But it’s never you.

Just an echo.

A shadow of a memory

that refuses to fade.

I’ve met others since,

but they walk through me—

like wind,

like dreams

I forgot how to wake up from.

---

VIII. Time, the Thief

Time has no remorse.

It robs us slow,

then all at once.

I forget the smell of your hair—

but I remember

how it felt

falling across my chest

when you slept on me.

I forget your laugh—

but not the sound

of my name on your lips.

And I forget why we ended—

but not how we began.

Isn’t that the cruelest part?

To remember the hope

but not the heartbreak?

To relive the light

but not the burn?

---

IX. I Loved You in Tenses

I loved you in the present—

when we lay beneath

unspoken stars.

I love you in the past—

when my arms held

the pieces of your peace.

And I will love you

in whatever future

my heart stumbles into.

Because love doesn’t end

with goodbye.

It lingers

like a song you still hum

long after the singer is gone.

---

X. And Still...

Even now,

after time has unraveled

the fabric of us,

I find you—

in songs,

in scents,

in sudden silence.

Even now,

you are the poem

my fingers still write

when they tremble.

You are the moon

between my hands—

never mine,

yet always near.

---

XI. The Final Whisper

So if you ever read this,

if these words make their way

into your quiet moment,

know this:

I loved you.

Not perfectly.

But truly.

In every way

a soul can love another.

And even now,

as I write the last line—

this poem remains

unfinished.

Because love like this

never ends.

It just changes

its name.

Thanks for reading ❤️:)