a FLOWER

There is a love that does not fade, even as seasons shift and names are forgotten. It moves quietly beneath the surface, steady as breath, unshaken by time or absence. It does not beg to be seen or held — it simply is. Like the final light resting on a bloom, or the hush that follows a familiar song, it remains where it was always meant to be. What belongs does not break away; it deepens, becoming part of the silence, part of the soul’s inner shape.

Some bonds are not bound by presence. They do not require voice or gesture to endure. They return in the stillness between thoughts, in the gentle weight of remembering something without knowing why it matters so much. Love like this does not vanish. It becomes the thread running through everything — unseen, unlost, unwavering — waiting not to be found, but to be recognized again by the heart that never stopped carrying it.