A cycle of short poetic stories
Story One
Today, the leaf was thin as a tremor,
And in it beat the memory of all the unspoken words.
I touched the edge, and it seemed to breathe,
Like silence pleading to be named aloud.
We did not say “I love you,” we did not say “wait” –
But the leaf preserved our voices in its veins.
And every time I hold it in my palm –
You return again. Like autumn, that cannot help but come back.
Story Two
Today, the leaf was soft as a breath
That did not dare to become a kiss.
We held it between our fingers –
As if we knew it would break if we confessed.
It was silent, and so were we. But is the darkness empty when you are in it?
And every unuttered thought remained as a vein within it.
I asked no questions. You gave no answers.
We simply breathed into one another.
And in this leaf, the day was preserved where the heart was louder than words.
Story Three
Today, the leaf fell like an echo
That lost its source in the heights.
It carried the weight of an inexpressible mist
And was silent about those doors that opened in the muteness.
I picked it up – and felt the cold presence of something
That had already been, even if it hadn’t happened yet.
In every one of its veins – my own essence,
Like a shadow breathing beside me, upon my shoulder…
A shoulder that remembers a touch that had no name.
Story Four
You brought me a handful of leaves –
Each one was a day, forgotten by everyone.
One – with laughter, the second – with dreams,
The third – from a morning when you were alone.
I did not ask: “Why do you give them away?” – for I knew:
This is not a loss, but a ritual.
You simply placed into me all that I once could not hold… and could not accept.
And now there is a garden between us – invisible, but alive.
And anyone who says “it is just leaves” –
Will never understand that we ourselves are poems