In the light that has no beginning or end,
they walk without hurry, without maps,
two souls woven from the same endless thread—
her the dream that refused to fade,
him the dreamer who learned to wake.
Time here is not a river but a garden,
where every flower blooms backward
into seed and forward into forever,
and regrets are only soil
for brighter things to grow.
She turns to him sometimes
and asks about the life he lived without her:
the children with eyes like distant stars,
the porches where he watched storms
that reminded him of her laugh,
the quiet mornings when he drank coffee
and felt her sitting across the table,
invisible but insistent.
He tells her everything,
words spilling like rain from a sky
that has held them too long.
And she listens, nodding,
her hand never leaving his,
as if to say: I was there in every breath
you thought was empty.
They find places they never knew in life—
fields where shadows dance without bodies,
lakes that reflect not water but wishes,
rooms filled with all the unsaid things
now spoken in a language of light.
One day (though days here are illusions),
she stops and pulls him close.
Do you miss it? she asks.
The living? The longing?
He thinks of the cold beds,
the drowning dreams,
the years like slow snow.
No, he says.
Because now I know:
love is not the dying or the waiting.
It is this—
the endless arriving.
She smiles,
and in that smile the universe remembers
why it began:
for moments like these,
where two become all,
and all becomes home.
They walk on,
fading into the light
the way poems fade into silence
after the last word is whispered.
But somewhere,
in a world that still turns,
a girl dreams of a boy,
a boy wakes thinking of her,
and the circle begins again—
not as tragedy,
but as the quiet promise
that love, once kindled,
never truly ends.