ripples of absence

I'm here,
where the water whispers your name,
a place where laughter once danced on ripples.

The pond, a glass canvas
reflecting the gray sky, the somber trees,
and the weight of your absence.

I remember how you'd leap,
sending waves to kiss the shore,
each droplet a universe of joy.

Now, I stand at the edge,
toes grazing the water's memory,
the cold truth seeping into my skin.

You were the bold one, the adventurer,
diving into life like this pond—
deep, fearless, and free.

I'm the quiet observer,
the keeper of moments,
now holding your last breath in my heart.

The dragonflies still skim the surface,
oblivious to the change,
to the stillness that fell like a shroud.

I toss a pebble, watching the circles grow,
each expanding embrace a question:
"Why not me? Why you?"

The pond holds no answers,
only the echo of a splash long gone,
and the silence of the world beneath.

I came to say goodbye,
but the words stick like mud,
heavy and hidden, just like you now.

So I sit, and I watch,
as the water plays the same old song,
a lullaby for the brother I can't wake.

The sun dips low, a sigh in the sky,
and I rise, leaving behind
the reflection of a girl who once had a brother.

I'll return, maybe,
when the pond has forgotten,
when I can smile at your ghost in the waves.

But for now, I walk away,
each step a drumbeat of life,
a march forward from the water's edge.