Your absence lingers in the bustling, hollow air,
a song the wind carries but never completes.
The walls don’t whisper your name—
they only echo the quiet.
I hear the wind rolling, steady and slow,
dragging the weight of days behind it,
pressing against the windows,
but never stepping inside.
Laughter once lived here,
light as dust in a sunbeam,
but now even the dust settles,
undisturbed, untouched.
The night sighs like it, too,
remembers what it lost.
And in the hush between the trees,
I listen, I wait—
but only the wind and my nightmares speak back.
Yet something stirs beyond the stillness,
a breath, a shift, a quiet return.
The wind whispers—not of endings,
Oh please, midwestern winds, blow in like Mary Poppins—send a miracle. And reverse this ending.
