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To Almeida

You are not here,

yet the air keeps your shape.
Light bends where you once stood,

casting the long, soft silhouette I still step around.

The heart is a lantern with windows of stained glass —

gold for the hours we shared, blue for the silences,

red for what the dark took away.

I tend its flame in the night,

knowing it burns only because it has known the wind;

because joy is stitched to its shadow,

because the hand that loves also learns the weight of letting go.

They never learnt to love who never knew to weep.

And if sorrow is the tide that gives the shoreline meaning,

then every tear is proof we lived beside the sea.