Is our love empty

In a house draped with shadows, love once brightly shone,
Where laughter wandered freely, now silence cuts to bone.
She watches him, a stranger veiled in everyday,
With glances fleeting, absent, like clouds that drift away.

Once, she was his moonlight, a beacon in his night,
His hands, a gentle armor, the spark that lit her flight.
But time, that subtle thief, has woven threads of change,
And whispers of her worth are lost in echoes strange.

She stands before the mirror, tracing lines of age,
Each wrinkle tells a story, each mark, a turning page.
Her heart beats with a longing that spirals through the air,
For tender words and soft caress, a love that feels so rare.

Does he see her fading shimmer, or is she just a shade?
A portrait on the wall of dreams, where bright colors once played.
She fears that he might seek a muse in younger forms,
A beauty draped in innocence, a warmth that feels like storms.

Yet still, in quiet moments, she clings to what they share,
The laughter that still dances, the love that lingers there.
But doubt, a prowling specter, wraps cold around her heart,
Filling every promise with a bitter, aching part.

'But oh,' she whispers softly, 'what if he still feels,
The flicker of the flame we shared, the truth that love reveals?'
With every fleeting kiss, each word left unuttered,
She longs to bridge the chasm, where once their hearts had fluttered.

A woman, masked in beauty’s gaze, still yearns for what was known,
To be seen, to be cherished, to feel the love they’d sewn.
So she gathers up the fragments, the pieces lost and crumbled,
And whispers to the starlit night, where love once softly tumbled.

For love is not just youthful glow, nor skin untouched by time,
But depth and strength in struggles faced, a rhythm, a soft rhyme.
So she stands amid the shadows, offering her heart anew,
In hope that he will see her still, in all that she once knew.