A Prayer for the Dawn
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| AI image generated by the Bytesized Studios |
A Prayer For the Dawn
In the half light of dawn, he stands by the window,
watching the sky shift from cobalt to gray to gold,
his hands trembling like leaves in a sudden wind,
knowing she is slipping through his grasp—
not with a shout, but with the gentle fade of morning,
a whisper carried on the breath of their time together.
He remembers her laughter—
a song that echoed in his soul like rain on its roof,
a warmth that had settled deep within his core,
but now, the silence between them is thick and heavy,
as if the air itself is reluctant to be parted.
He whispers her name softly, again,
not to stop her, but to hold her—
if only in words, if only in a breath,
to keep her from dissolving into the space
that has begun to grow between them.
His memory searches for her in the small details—
the way she does her hair,
the gentle curve of her collarbone,
the scent of her hair lingering on the pillow—
each a fragile prayer, a plea for her to stay.
He still fears the empty room, the quiet that follows,
like a shadow creeping through corners,
a hollow echo of the life they built together,
dissolving into the unspoken, the unseen.
He knows love is not possession,
but still he clings—
to the moments like fragile glass,
to the hope that the dawn will break again,
and she will turn, look back, and stay.
In the quiet dawn, he drinks coffee by the window,
his heart beating a steady, quiet prayer—
for the dawn, for her, for his love that holds
even when his world begins to unspool.
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