Sometimes I think she still speaks to that shy, unfinished moon,
letting my name slip out quietly between her sighs.

Maybe she doesn’t miss me the way I miss her,
yet somewhere in her day, I hope I cross her mind.

“The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.” — Blaise Pascal

Even by accident, on some crowded street,
or when an old song brushes past her ears,
perhaps my face appears for a heartbeat,
like dust floating in a sudden shaft of light.

Now and then, she might mention me to someone,
a stray line, a small remark,
dropped into the moment as if it meant nothing,
while her eyes wander somewhere far away.

She has her own life now, a world I no longer see,
years and miles have settled gently between us.
Still, I wonder if, in some quiet corner of her evening,
when the noise fades and the day loosens its grip,
a small, forgotten version of us drifts through her thoughts …
not to stay, not to ache,
just passing by like a familiar fragrance
that lingers for a second,
and then is gone.