There was a hand
that once reached for mine
without knowing why.

There was a glance
that saw me
before I became.

We walked,
without destination,
as if walking itself
was a promise.

The days wore each other's names,
nights whispered no questions,
only breath.

What we had
lived outside of language,
only in presence
and in what no longer
quite fits.

The glass was not shattered,
only set down
and forgotten.

The past perfect love
rests somewhere between
then and never again,
in the quiet knowing
that something vast
can vanish
without a sound.

And yet-
when the wind turns just so,
or a scent
accidentally repeats
what we were-
something moves
in what should
have long been still.