Writers Jam

I’ve stopped trying to forget you.
Instead, I’ve built a small temple
somewhere inside me.
It’s not made of marble or stone,
just moments that refused to leave.
It is filled with the warmth that stayed long after you were gone.

There are no idols here, only fragments —
Pieces of you I once fell in love with.
I keep them polished, untouched
by the dust of forgetting. In this temple, devotion is not worship;
it is remembrance
woven into the rhythm of my living.

I visit the temple often,
and light the lamp of remembrance every night.
Its flames does not reach for you,
It only keeps the memory of your light alive.
There’s a strange peace in it,
like sitting in a room where the light hits right,
and for a second, the world feels whole again.

I used to think love needed presence to survive.
Now I know it doesn’t.
Some things live quietly in us,
asking for nothing, giving everything.
You’ve become one of those things —
a constant hum under the noise of living.

I have learned that some forms of devotion
exist without prayer — wordless and never-ending.
They live in the space between heartbeat and stillness,
in the echo that lingers long after the sound is gone.

So I tend to my temple gently —
not as a keeper of sorrow,
but as one who understands that
eternity is sometimes made of moments
we refuse to let die.

And when the night deepens,
I sit before the altar of memory,
hands resting in my lap,
and whisper to the lamp: You're not gone.
You've simply become sacred.

P.S. Touchwood if I ever have a husband and he dies before me — this one’s waiting for him.