"The Whisper of Her Absent Hands"
"The Whisper of Her Absent Hands"
In the silken dawn of the sepia morning,
where the void holds its tranquil secrets,
I remember the touch of her absent hands,
like the shadow of a willow at twilight.
Their caress was poetry, an invisible thread,
weaving whispers through the loom of silence.
The whisper of her absent hands sings
a melody, hushed, through the corridors of time,
a fragrant echo that dances in hidden corners.
They linger in the spaces between breath and tear,
in the secret places where the heart learns to beat,
their touch a memory etched in the soul’s script.
They brush against the pages of my solitude,
an ethereal rhythm that echoes like dreams.
Her hands left messages in the stars’ glitter,
stories spun from moonlight, sealed in night’s ink.
They held the universe within their delicate grip,
cradled the cosmos in their tender embrace.
Her hands, like whispers, shaped dawn’s first light,
carved rivers through the endless fields of time,
tilled the fertile earth of forgotten valleys.
In silent chords, they moved like gentle winds,
guiding the blooming petals of uncertain days,
leading the soul through melodies unseen.
Their touch, a hidden compass, a guide,
their whisper, a map written in breaths.
They disappear into the folds of lingering dusk,
leaving behind a trail of stars in the void.
Their absence, a sonnet carved in falling leaves,
an ode that lingers in the twilight’s edge.
I recall the moments they embraced shadows,
tracing the contours of the moon's silent face,
fingers dipped in silver dust of celestial dreams.
They spoke to the hidden heart of distant suns,
whispered secrets to the slumbering world,
words woven with the threads of infinity.
In the stillness, I feel their ghostly dance,
a ballet of sighs through the night’s veil,
their echo the hymn of the universe's breath.
They skim the water’s surface, a fleeting kiss,
a silent ripple that speaks with the dawn's hue.
They are the invisible hands that write our fate.
The leaves of autumn sing of her touch,
their descent a symphony of silent whispers.
The sea’s murmur echoes their lost caresses,
waves that tell tales of endless horizons.
Her hands are the hands of time, unfurling
the ancient scrolls of the heart’s deepest songs.
Every petal that unfolds in morning’s kiss,
every star that sparks the thoughts.
###
II)
Our dawn was a silent echo's kiss,
drift of stars on quiet sea, unbroken,
windswept, hopeful in modest embrace,
her fierce ardor in twilight's soft gleam,
ferns unfurled in the dusk, a whisper,
a wisp of breath etched in morning's glow.
Memory like seafoam, bright and fleeting,
sunrise on alabaster shores, whispering
songs only ancient mariners weave, sighs
of silver threads, endless as horizon’s reach,
this horizon where her breath once danced
with rhythm in twilight’s sweet symphony.
Each footstep echoes on night's vast mosaic,
luminous as dark stars, a tender lexicon
wrought of longing, forged in her laughter,
that constellation burning cold in me,
alive in the cradle of these waiting hands,
lost winds through canyons, whispered welcome.
And now, her orchid hands like lost blossoms,
scattered, ashen petals speaking beauty,
entwined in the dusk, whispering, whispering,
fretted cadence through these fingers’ embrace,
captured in color, honeyed and somber
caresses drawn in night’s dark amber.
Breathes the silence, echoes soft and sibilant,
oracles in her touchless embrace,
as if the moon itself whispered amethyst
tales to the ocean’s unending rise,
our pulse swells in marble folds of memory,
etched alone in endless cascades.
Her absence is the shape of morning mist,
dew on rose petals, trembling and fine,
of dreams ensnaring whispers in splendor
where shadows yearn beneath the widening sky,
a symphony of unspoken promises,
raindrops parting the melancholy eaves.
A quiet alchemy in her silence blooms,
misted transparencies are born anew,
hands that should speak the language of springtime,
mute and tender, ghosting through dreams’ half-light,
silent beneficence, the whisper sings,
light lingering on untraveled paths.
Each strand of nightfall, softer tongues embracing
night and day, basalt and ivory mingling,
tracing her unseen touch on a trembling world,
hands that cast notes on the wind like fireflies,
gleaming, beckoning in their spectral hymn,
waltzing in the sun’s slumbering shadow.
What becomes of the heart’s vast whispers,
as stars rend, planets cease their glowing voyage,
if not memories of longiness, now.
N.Y.
