Today, once again, she opened the book,
And the pen in her hand softly shook
“What brings you back?” it gently sighed,
As the pages turned with a sound that cried.
A rustle, a whisper his name, just his name,
The only one her ink ever dares to claim.
She writes not for crowds, not for fame or show,
But for the one her heart won’t let go.
One day, he’ll rest where her heartbeat stays,
Head on her lap as she softly conveys
Each verse, each line, every hidden clue,
The love she wrote in silence, through and through.
Till that day, the pen shall not rest,
Filling each page with her heart’s behest.
And when he finds his way back to her door,
The last page already says what’s in store
A quiet gallery in some forgotten space,
Where his name lives on in art and grace.
She once told him, with stars in her eyes,
“I’ll build an art gallery beneath open skies
Not of landscapes, nor strangers, nor tales from afar,
But only of you, my moon, my scar.”
Every corner will whisper the shape of his smile,
Every stroke on canvas will echo each mile
She walked in his absence, barefoot and brave,
A museum of moments she never could save.
Portraits drawn from memory’s haze,
Letters framed from her loneliest days.
A room of colors that only he knew,
Where every shade screams, “I waited for you.”
No audience needed, no guided tour,
Just a silent shrine of a love so pure.
But still, she believes, with hands raised high,
He’ll be hers, under Allah’s sky.
For she prays with a faith that bends no knee
And trusts the One who writes destiny.
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