The gap.

A Poem by Fairy Khan

I have not bent my pen to paper in seasons,
yet my devotion lingers, silent as a shadow,
spilling over the edges of forgotten days.
If I were to measure the gaps,
the void where words once blossomed,
an unspoken heart would offer no lyric.
But love, it is the reweaving,
the delicate craft of stitching what time frays.

The spirit,
like a river winding through the half-light,
learning the weight of longing,
the art of rising, always.

That is the poem,
not in its perfection, but in the ache-
the way we stumble through silence,
reaching for each other
even when the words won’t come.