History of Sorts

In the quiet of the evening’s sigh,
I hear your voice like whispered rain,
Softly slipping through the sky,
A tender touch, a trace of pain.

The empty chair, the silent phone,
Where laughter lived, now shadows dwell,
Your absence carves a deeper tone,
A hollow sound, a wordless spell.

Faces blur in memory’s glass,
Friends and family, one by one,
Like autumn leaves, they fade and pass,
Carried off beneath the sun.

Yet in my heart, you echo still,
Each name a star, though long set free,
A flicker bright on every hill,
A light that time cannot unsee.

I gather fragments of your grace,
In moments lost but somehow near,
In every wind, I feel your trace,
In every tear, I hold you here.