You whispered, once, "I'll be back on your birthday with a nice gift." How sweet, how hopeful those words sounded, like a promise spun from the threads of dreams. I believed you, with all the fragile hope of a heart in love, believing you would return-if not with a gift, then with the warmth of your touch, your breath, your voice.
Your soul was the dearest gift for me, but it was taken.
But now, I hang your memories upon the line, as if the wind might carry them back to you. The fabric flutters in the silence, untouched by the life you promised would come. The stains never fade, but they speak to me, a cruel reminder that you are gone. And still, I wait.
Do you hear me, my love? As the days slip through my fingers like dust, I stand in the shadow of your absence, my hands trembling as I tie the clothes to the line. I do this for you-no, for me for the hope that lingers in my chest, even as the world tells me to let go. Youpromised me.
I wait for you still, as I always will, because how could I ever forget your voice in the dark, your promise in the quiet of that night? The gift you spoke of... is it your return, or is it something darker that fate has planned for me?
The line is empty without you. And yet, I hang your warm smiles , each thread soaked in the memory of you. I keep waiting, my love. For you, for the gift you swore to bring. And when you come, if you ever do, knowmy love. For you, for the gift you swore to bring. And when you come, if you ever do, know that I'll be here, with the same heart that has never stopped loving you.
Yours,
Forevermore
