They met where the wind forgets the word mountain
and learned to speak in something close to silence
a language neither named nor called love
that never quite knew how to become home
so it wandered, always pulled toward return
like weather folded into the wide sky
The days were carved into the shape of sky
above the ridge where they first named mountain
as if naming could make it less like return
or soften what could only be silence
but everything they built refused home
and stayed instead in the grammar of love
Even distance learned the outline of love
stretching thin beneath an unchanging sky
where absence became its own kind of home
and memory pressed itself into mountain
nothing there ever fully broke the silence
it only changed direction into return
Every road bent quietly toward return
as if the world itself remembered love
but could not speak it outside silence
so it hid inside the endless sky
and waited in the shape of mountain
for something that might finally feel like home
They carried it with them—what is not home
a weight that moves but never return
that lives in the body like a mountain
and rises whenever they think of love
even the air seemed too small for sky
and everything else collapsed into silence
What remains is only this long silence
that refuses to leave, refuses to be home
it follows them like weather through the sky
and bends the distance between them and return
until even memory feels like love
still standing, unbroken, like a mountain