Love Lives Beneath the Dust

The sun has dipped below the line, and in the quiet of this exhale, a sharp panic rises. You realize an hour has passed without their face appearing in your mind, and the fear strikes: is this forgetting the final death?

Has the love faded because the image blurred? But listen — the light does not live in the constant replay of memory.

It lives in the root. There was a woman who lost a single coin in the dust of her home.

She did not assume the coin had ceased to exist just because she could not see it. She lit a lamp.

She swept the floor. She searched until the hidden thing was found.

Your forgetting is not the end of the bond. It is merely the dust settling while you rest.

The love is still there, waiting under the surface, untouched by the hour's silence. You do not need to conjure their face to hold their soul.

The light that joined you to them is stronger than your memory's grip. Put down the guilt of the gap.

The connection was not broken; it was simply waiting for you to stop striving and simply be.