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SILENT STROKES

By Vera Von Monika

I stand before the void of empty frames,
hands trembling with colours I cannot name.
Each stroke draws me closer to your shadow,
each shade murmurs the shape of your absence.

The night spills across the studio floor,
raindrops tapping rhythms on the roof.
Your laughter, a phantom melody,
dances between silence and light.

I blend sorrow with the gold of memory,
hoping somehow it will hold you near.
Even as pigments run and fracture,
your essence seeps into every line.

A thousand moments fold into one,
like smoke curling from a candle long spent.
I chase the shadows of your glance,
painting them across the walls of my chest.

The moon drifts through the skylight,
silver threads threading through my vision.
I hear the whispers of brushes not yet touched,
of music that lives only in our echoes.

I sketch your voice in invisible ink,
trace the tremor of your fingers on imagined keys.
Every empty canvas murmurs with the weight
of what we never said,
never held,
never claimed.

Time bends, pauses, then unfolds again,
revealing pieces of us I never touched.
And though no brush,
no canvas, no song
can fully contain this fire,
I paint it anyway—
relentless, untamed, alive.

The night swells around me, velvet and sharp,
and I move through it as through a symphony of shadows.
Each colour bleeds into the next,
a crescendo of longing,
memory, and desire.

Until the stars dissolve behind the first light,
I trace you in silence,
knowing love is not captured,
only whispered into existence.

And when the world wakes,
the walls bare,
the frames empty,
your presence remains in the strokes I leave behind,
silent but eternal,
a testament to the fire we once shared.

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