He was the sun through stained glass

Never arriving whole, only in colors.

He was a book abandoned in the rain. Words smudged, pages swollen, spine aching.

They met somewhere between a sigh and a song,

In a room no one remembered building.

He never asked her name.

She never asked why he limped when he laughed.

Instead, they traded shadows.

She gave him a storm in a jar.

He gave her a clock with no hands.

Time bent.

Rules softened.

They sat in silence.

But the silence spoke fluent longing.

One day she vanished,

Leaving only the scent of unfinished sentences.

Now he waters the space where she once stood,

Just in case something might grow.