The morning light arrives but finds no space
where once your laughter filled the waking air,
for in this house, time moves at a slower pace,
and silence echoes everywhere.

I trace your shadow on the empty wall,
recall the cadence of your steady tread,
and listen for a voice that does not call
from rooms where memories remain unsaid.

The seasons turn their page, yet I remain
suspended in that moment you were here,
caught between joy and sorrow, sun and rain,
between the present and a vanished year.

So I will wait, though waiting bends the bone,
until your presence makes me whole again.