They left, their silhouettes thinning like thread,
fingers lingering in the space between,
the air trembling with absence, a quiet quake.
We waved as if unspooling a goodbye,
as if unraveling a promise we couldn\'t keep.
The land lies patient, open-palmed and waiting,
its ribs jagged with the ache for seeds.
The wind conspires, nudging weeds along
dry paths that forget names but not voices.
Who taught the wind to carry memory?
Or rooftops to remember our shuffled feet?
Even silence hums where we once stood,
its song curling like smoke, shy and soft.
Our hands are tired of waving at ghosts.
Empty air greets our palms with cold weight.
Still, the horizon bends, whispers, and waves
back like it knows what we’ve lost,
like it mourns the stories we couldn\'t finish.