Duka

When love dies, it doesn't disappear - it just becomes an echo. The habit of thinking "we," even when it's just "me" left. There's something almost ceremonial in that sound: each word is like a barefoot step on shards, where pain no longer cuts, but sings. Everything around is filled with longing, but not the kind that tears you apart from within, but a tired, beautiful longing - like a sunset that has been hesitant to dip below the horizon for too long. This isn't about suffering, but about that quiet humility when you finally admit - yes, the wings are gone, but there's memory instead. And it's still warm.