Sometimes, when the world falls still

 Sometimes, when the world falls still,

I can almost hear you breathing.
Not loud — just soft enough to feel,
like a memory brushing against the edges of my heart.

I think love leaves traces in the air —
tiny echoes that never fade,
carried by the wind, waiting for the right silence to be heard again.

You always slept beside me,
your breaths syncing with mine,
a rhythm I didn’t know I’d memorized until it was gone.

Now, in the quiet hours,
I still listen for it.
And some nights —
I find it.

The curtains move though no window’s open.
The air cools, then warms, as if your soul exhaled peace.
And I realize…
you’re here.
Not in form, but in feeling.
Not in fur, but in air, light, and unseen presence.

Love is stubborn like that.
It refuses to end just because a heartbeat stops.

So I sit in the dark and breathe,
letting the night fill me with what’s left of you —
soft, eternal, invisible.

And for a moment,
the air feels alive again.
Full of love.
Full of you.