It's six p.m. — the sky half-blue,
half-sad, and soft, yet heavy too.
This hour hums your name again,
a quiet ghost, a gentle pain.
Perhaps because we used to talk,
when evening shadows start to walk,
and laughter bent the hands of time,
your voice a hush, your tone a rhyme.
Now cars still hum, the people pass,
the daylight fades through window glass.
But here i am, in still embrace,
your memory filling empty space.
You're somewhere else, I know it's true,
the world moves on, it always knew.
Yet every dusk, my heart will say,
"I miss you most at end of day."
Not sad, not torn, just something deep,
a promise that the heart will keep.
For even far, and even through,
this hour will always lead to you.