There are books that speak, and there are books that listen-this one does both.
In these pages, the voice does not plead for love to return so much as it testifies to what love leaves behind: heat without fire, salt without sea, silence that echoes louder than any thunder. The poems in this collection are elemental-not merely about love, but weathered by it. They arrive like the tide: some gently, some with the hush of devastation.
Here, absence is not a void but a presence that walks through rooms, rearranges memory, and lingers in the curves of furniture and the weight of light. The poet does not ornament longing; he unburies it. Each poem becomes an altar of what once burned, what remains unspoken, and what the wind remembers when the body forgets.
There is reverence in this grief. And fire. And fog. And sleep.
The poems will not give you answers. They will hand you a match and a mirror. They will let you sit beside the hush that comes after the door has closed-but they will not let you leave unchanged.
These are not poems written to impress. They are written to survive.
