Somewhere in the quiet day,
a thought drifts softly, drifts your way.
The air feels just a little still,
as if it waits, remembers, feels.
Laughter lingers in hidden rooms,
like distant echoes, like unseen blooms.
Moments stretch and fold inside,
where small, soft memories quietly hide.
No one sees the weight it brings,
the gentle tug of invisible strings.
Yet something warm persists, remains,
in whispered echoes of familiar names.
The world moves on, the hours pass,
but in these corners, shadows last.
A quiet longing, subtle, slight,
that folds around the edge of night.
Sometimes the light feels sharper here,
casting shapes of what was near.
A smile imagined, a glance replayed,
soft reminders that never fade.
And though no words escape the chest,
no letters sent, no love confessed,
there's a pulse, a small, persistent trace,
of someone gone yet still in place.
The clock ticks on, the street moves by,
yet in this quiet, a thought can lie.
A presence felt without a sound,
a gentle heartbeat still around.