We’ll Meet Again
Night falls thicker than prophecy, stars swallowed by old hunger,
Yet through the dusk, the silence is never pure—It’s
tattooed with the murmur of bonds unbroken,
With names half-remembered, drifting past what flesh can
endure.The world can break its axis, fires can swallow the plains,
Cities can rot to ashes and lovers be lost to the undertow—But somewhere in the marrow of
time, a memory remains:A pulse,
an unfinished promise that never learned how to let go.
Ancient spirits stitch the dark with patient threads,
Ghosts turn the wheel and stitch us into myth’s design,
Every goodbye was only a masquerade—We come apart
and circle back by fate’s crooked line.Even as the sun gutters,
even as rivers run dry,
Hands reaching from shadow to shadow, wound to wound,
A thousand lives bleed their sorrow across the
sky—Yet something in our ruin is forever attuned.
No goodbyes here—only the ache of absence learning its refrain,
As if all farewells were rehearsals for reunion,
As if all love were carved into the bones of pain,
And every grave inscribed: not the end, only a union.In dream or hunger,
in the pause before waking,
In the half-light where names refuse to die,
We stumble through centuries,
each wound remakingThe map of return beneath a haunted sky.
Yes, I have wandered the ruins of memory,
worn thinBy centuries of hunger
and faces blurred by regret;Yet every time I thought I’d forgotten,
you slid in—A shape in the fog,
the taste of a vow not finished yet.No star is
lost that’s not reborn in another constellation,
No word unsaid that won’t echo in some other tongue,
The dead still cling to this world with quiet desperation,
Crooning the chorus that cannot remain unsung.
Where wildflowers spring from bones, where rivers twist beneath stone,
I feel your fingerprints pressed into the silt,
We are ghosts devouring distance,
in the marrow and the moan—No border can hold what our longing
has built.In firelit rooms, in the hush after storms,
In fields where nothing but weeds recall the dead,
The soul grows wild, refusing all forms,
Until grief is just another thread in the web we have spun and shed.
Let time collapse; let empires die.Let the world forget every song we have sung.Somewhere, always, under a bloodstained sky,Our shadows will linger—unfinished, unsprung.It
is not mercy that draws us together—Nor fate, nor hope,
nor cosmic decree—But a hunger that circles,
a fire untethered,A love that outlasts both time and decree.
And when the last dawn breaks in silence,
When the heavens unravel, when all is unmade—There will be hands reaching,
shivering with defiance,
There will be the hush where old debts are repaid.In that moment,
beyond memory and flesh,
Where absence can finally shed its skin,
The universe pauses—future and past enmesh—And we, unfinished,
are called to begin.
We’ll meet again, where the bones of the world remember,
Where rivers remember the names of the drowned,
Where the wildflowers blossom from ash in September,
Where hope isn’t holy, but still can be found.No ending is final,
no silence complete,
No death so total it cannot rescind;In every collapse, in defeat’s retreat,
We wait—twin shadows—unwilling to end.
The promise is written in the ash and the blood,
In scars that outlast even memory’s theft—We’ll meet again, in thunder or flood,
Haunting the places our longing has left.Not as angels, not as saviors,
not pure or contrite—But as fragments that never learned to forget,
Returning again at the edge of the night,
Finding forever in the space where we met.