Daydreaming by the Window

A languid afternoon—
I lean against the wide glass window,
watching the distant mountains
wind away into silence.

I make myself a cup of coffee,
and in its dark, lingering fragrance
your face comes back to me—
somewhere beyond the mountains,
somewhere beyond the water.

I remember that summer
when you left.

You turned,
and I was left behind,
walking alone
into the melancholy of autumn.

Even now, in those half-dreaming moments,
I can still see your eyes,
bright with tears.

And somewhere beside my ear
your voice still calls my name—
that broken, aching call
you gave me at our parting.

Only then
did I learn
what loneliness meant.

The words I once said
were carried off by the wind.

The tears you shed
were dried beneath the sun.

And the romance
we once believed would never fade
has faded into nowhere—

leaving only a few scattered fragments,
sinking slowly
into the deep, still waters
of memory.

I draw my eyes back to the window.

Through the blur,
a face looks back at me—

older now,
quietly worn by years.

And suddenly I understand:

time has changed everything.

Everything
except this question
I have never asked.

So let me ask you now—

if,
I mean, if,

one day
we should meet again
somewhere in this sea of strangers,

would you still know my voice?

Would you still know my face?