🖋️ Beneath Shifting Skies

The lady sits alone at ninety-three, Still clinging to his memory. He had a way of showing love, A bond, a touch, a hand in glove. She sorts through cards in an old shoebox, Reads his lines with trembling hands. Tears blur the ink, each word a thread, Weaving through the life they’d planned. Though he’s gone, she can’t say goodbye. She whispers softly, “It’s alright.” Her words bring comfort through the night, As she drifts, still clinging to his light. She can’t turn back the hands of time, Can’t feel his arms, so warm, so kind. Her heart aches with each silent cry, But at ninety-three, she won’t let go, Still holding on… to the love she knows.