We used to speak in constellations, finding forever in midnight skies. Now our words fall like autumn leaves, beautiful still, but ready to die. Your hand once felt like coming home, a harbor calm against the tide. Now, silence lingers in the spaces where laughter used to hide softly. No storm arrived to break our hearts, no bitter fight, no final blame. Just quiet days that stretched between us, until love barely knew its name. I still see traces of your light, like sunset colors after dusk— a fading glow upon the horizon, gentle, distant, touched by rust. And though I mourn what slipped away, I hold no anger, only grace. For some loves do not shatter loudly; they simply fade without a trace. Yet in the echoes of our story, I'll keep the warmth of what we knew because even fading love was beautiful while it was shining through.