I visit where your name is carved,
Not to find you, but to feel you.
You’re not there; I know this,
But it steadies me,
An anchor to the heart of memory.

I speak aloud what’s tangled in silence:
The shape of my day,
The ache that echoes behind joy,
The news you’d have smiled at,
Or warned me through your eyes.

Can you hear me?
I don’t know.
But something listens,
Even if it’s just the wind and grass,
Or the Lord who knows my grief.

It helps.
To say it out loud.
To pretend I’m still telling you first.
Maybe it’s madness. Maybe it’s love.
Maybe both.

The pain is a shadow that doesn’t shrink,
But I’ve learned to walk beside it
Instead of running away.