That evening, the rain was not clothing the city but my soul;
each drop whispered the hidden tears of the sky.
The little bell at the door touched the fragile string of my heart,
and I opened myself, not to a book, but to your silence.
The books on the shelves, thousands of faces, thousands of fates,
yet you were the only living metaphor among them.
Your hair was the lines of a poem unraveled by rain,
your eyes, a secret lake hidden within a broken mirror.
The way a book slipped from your hands
was like the silent farewell of a falling star.
In that instant, I understood: even your touch rendered rejection beautiful;
for to be lost in your hands was never truly to be lost.
You stood before me silent, like the red stain in the museum:
not shouting, but bleeding within me like a wound.
“Some reds wound the heart gently,” you said,
and in your words I heard my own heart being cut.
Your silence—like the forgotten refrain of a song—
lasted three days, and still, I heard you.
For your silence spoke more than words;
I heard your breath in every hollow pause.
One night you told me, “Enchanting,”
and I shone as if I had touched the stars themselves.
The next morning you said, “too melodramatic,”
and I stood leafless upon the stem of a withered flower.
Yet still, my roots clung to your voice.
Margaret… by your side, I was not the rain itself,
but the lake it left behind.
For your gaze summoned not drops, but waves.
Now I know:
Love is not always a matter of being weighed on a scale;
it is to be reborn within the breath of another.
I was rewritten through your breath.
And that night, as the city’s streetlights quivered with rain,
I read a single sentence in the mirror of my own heart:
“Even in your silence, I still hear you,
for love is the metaphor of the unsaid.”
