The Unopened Door Poem by ashok jadhav

I stand where your shadow once fell,
hands pressed to the threshold of memory,
listening for the echo of steps
that will never come again.
The hours pass in quiet torment,
each one heavier than the last,
and even the wind seems to linger,
trembling with the ghost of your voice.
I trace the air where your laughter lived,
touch the chair you left behind,
and the ache gathers silently,
folding itself into the corners of the room,
a presence only absence can hold.
Even the sun hesitates to shine,
casting long, patient shadows,
and I learn that waiting
can be a grief as deep as loss,
a wound that refuses to close,
because some hearts
are meant to carry absence forever.