A moment,
greater than words,
a heat that freezes,
chills aligning in uncharted paths.
Our gazes met,
an unspoken contract,
unlike the fleeting glances
I had grown used to—
no retreat, no surrender,
just the ache of recognition.
I kicked myself,
cursing the odds,
because what are the chances?
But then, fate's cruel humour:
a random restaurant,
and there she was again,
a familiar beauty,
a familiar chill,
a familiar ache.
My heart ruptured
against the cage of my ribs,
each beat a reminder:
here is your moment,
here is your chance.
But silence claimed me,
as she left,
and I let it go.
At the intersection where it began,
I searched for her shadow,
pushing fate's reluctant hands.
Through the cold,
through the crowd,
through sidewalks that never knew her name,
I followed whispers of hope.
The chill was unrelenting,
but not hers.
The absence of her presence
filled the air.
I prayed to chance,
to destiny,
to the voice in my head that lied to me,
but all I found was emptiness,
and the kind of cold
that no warmth could cure.
What I wanted was not the walk,
not the chase,
not the night.
What I wanted
was to make my home in her.
A gaze,
a fragile thread of eternity stretched
across the busy air—
eyes that did not shy away,
but lingered, as if tasting
the essence of another soul.
Once, we met
on the canvas of a fleeting moment,
a brief flare of life
in the monotony of existence.
The chill was strange, electric,
alive in every nerve.
