They were not meant for wedding bells,
nor Sunday mornings, fairy tales.
No framed forever on a wall,
no answering to midnight calls.
They were a season, wild and rare,
a sacred breath of borrowed air.
He was her calm, her reckless tide,
she was his truth he could not hide.
They held each other knowing well
that some bright things are not to dwell.
The world was wide, the timing wrong,
yet nothing there could make it gone.
He keeps her voice in passing rain,
in empty seats on midnight trains.
She keeps his touch in winter’s chill,
a quiet warmth that lingers still.
They did not break, they chose release
a softer kind of loving peace.
For love is not just staying near,
it’s letting go and holding dear.
Not every story ends in vows,
in white-veiled dreams or sacred brows.
Some stories end, but still remain,
like perfume pressed in silk and pain.
And though their paths no longer cross,
their love was never counted loss.
It lives in who they’ve grown to be,
in what was his,
in what was she. ✨