Passing Love

 She does not turn, but leans into the light,

A bloom half-facing where the shadows fall.

Her fragrance clings to wings not yet in flight,

The hush before the heart can say it all.

She offers not an end, but slow goodbye,

A tenderness still resting on the air—

Not absence yet, but soft and asking why

The space between begins to feel so bare.

This love still warms, though gently pulls away,

Its golden thread unspools from hand to hand.

Not lost, not left—just drifting from today,

Still close enough the other understands.

So let it pass, not broken but set free,

A gift once shared that floats toward memory.