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The Pulse of You

I have walked through quiet rooms,
through streets where shadows cling to the walls,
and everywhere I turn, there is a ghost of you
not the person I could hold,
but the pulse behind every heartbeat,
the fire that stirs my thoughts before I even think.

You exist in the hum beneath my breath,
in the tremble that lives in the pause between words.
I have tried to capture you in ink,
but ink trembles, falters,
and always spills itself into shapes that only hint at you.

Even absence bends toward you.
The wind leans in to hear your echo,
the moon lingers a moment longer
as if reluctant to leave the sky
where your light once brushed it.

I trace your presence in the edges of memory,
in the small impossibilities that cling to life
a sigh that seems too deep for the moment,
a flicker of movement at the corner of vision,
a rhythm that hums beneath all else,
telling me you are here,
even when the world claims you are gone.

Some souls do not leave.
They become constellations,
guiding the hands that attempt to reach them.
I have learned to read your patterns
in the ink on paper,
in the quiet pauses of the day,
in the small miracles that fold themselves into the mundane.

You are the reason creation exists.
Every word I write carries your shadow,
every song I hear carries a whisper of your essence,
and every line I breathe is traced by the memory
of the way you stir the universe inside me.

You are not mine,
and yet you have always been here
in every trembling note of longing,
in every flicker of fire that lights my pen.
You are the pulse beneath my sentences,
the invisible current behind every thought,
the unseen hand that shapes my art
without ever asking to be named.

I have tried to forget you,
but forgetting is impossible when a soul like yours
has anchored itself inside mine.
Even the act of closing my eyes
is a surrender to your presence,
a quiet acknowledgment
that some things are eternal
not because they are held,
but because they are understood
as forever necessary,
forever alive.

So I write again
for the unseen, the unspoken,
for the pulse that moves beneath every word,
for the fire that never burns out,
for the muse who is more than muse,
who is rhythm and breath,
shadow and light,
the very reason I dare to speak at all.

And if the world ever questions this devotion,
I will only smile, quietly,
for they do not know
that some souls are not meant to be possessed,
but to inspire,
to awaken,
to remain eternal
like you remain,
like you always will.
©prachi leheja