50 Faces of Separation
Where Moments Go When They Leave Us
Some losses are not of people, but of moments.
And those losses are harder to name.
A meditation on absence, time, and the vanishing fragrance of love was written from a quiet confusion I often feel when looking back not at what was taken, but at what simply slipped away. Time moves forward with great confidence, yet leaves behind questions that refuse to age.
The poem begins with a search. Not for answers, but for a moment that once felt alive. When I wrote,
“Where is that restless moment in these dense and heavy nights?”
I was thinking about how certain moments remain unfinished inside us. Nights pass, years accumulate, but something within keeps waiting without knowing for what.
Time, in this poem, is not linear. It circles, expands, and distances itself. Even as the world races ahead, the inner self remains paused:
“The age has travelled farther than the farthest stars,
Yet in the orbit of time, where is the moment I may call my own?”
This line reflects the strange loneliness of modern life movement without arrival, progress without belonging.
Light appears again and again in the poem, but it refuses to stay. The soul’s lamp is lit repeatedly, yet its glow dissolves. Hope is present, but fragile. Trust stands still on a trembling path, as if unsure whether it will survive the next step.
One of the quiet heartbreaks of this poem lies in its imagery of abundance that feels empty:
“In gardens full of blooms, even fragrance chooses silence.”
Here, love has not vanished dramatically it has faded softly. And perhaps that is what hurts most. Not the ending, but the gradual loss of wonder.
Memory, too, is unreliable. It fades like footprints in sand, leaving us holding stories that no longer know where they belong. The final search is inward:
“Wrapped in clouds of grief, Zeeshan still searches for himself.”
This is not despair it is honesty. Sometimes the self we are looking for is not lost, only hidden beneath time’s dust.
This poem does not resolve its questions. It allows them to exist. It accepts that some moments are not meant to be recovered, only remembered in their absence. And perhaps that absence, too, has its own quiet fragrance.
Thank you for reading with stillness, and for allowing these vanished moments to speak through you.
Zeeshan Ameer Saleemi
Some losses are not of people, but of moments.
And those losses are harder to name.
A meditation on absence, time, and the vanishing fragrance of love was written from a quiet confusion I often feel when looking back not at what was taken, but at what simply slipped away. Time moves forward with great confidence, yet leaves behind questions that refuse to age.
The poem begins with a search. Not for answers, but for a moment that once felt alive. When I wrote,
“Where is that restless moment in these dense and heavy nights?”
I was thinking about how certain moments remain unfinished inside us. Nights pass, years accumulate, but something within keeps waiting without knowing for what.
Time, in this poem, is not linear. It circles, expands, and distances itself. Even as the world races ahead, the inner self remains paused:
“The age has travelled farther than the farthest stars,
Yet in the orbit of time, where is the moment I may call my own?”
This line reflects the strange loneliness of modern life movement without arrival, progress without belonging.
Light appears again and again in the poem, but it refuses to stay. The soul’s lamp is lit repeatedly, yet its glow dissolves. Hope is present, but fragile. Trust stands still on a trembling path, as if unsure whether it will survive the next step.
One of the quiet heartbreaks of this poem lies in its imagery of abundance that feels empty:
“In gardens full of blooms, even fragrance chooses silence.”
Here, love has not vanished dramatically it has faded softly. And perhaps that is what hurts most. Not the ending, but the gradual loss of wonder.
Memory, too, is unreliable. It fades like footprints in sand, leaving us holding stories that no longer know where they belong. The final search is inward:
“Wrapped in clouds of grief, Zeeshan still searches for himself.”
This is not despair it is honesty. Sometimes the self we are looking for is not lost, only hidden beneath time’s dust.
This poem does not resolve its questions. It allows them to exist. It accepts that some moments are not meant to be recovered, only remembered in their absence. And perhaps that absence, too, has its own quiet fragrance.
Thank you for reading with stillness, and for allowing these vanished moments to speak through you.
Zeeshan Ameer Saleemi
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