One complaining poet's Elegy

She called me a poet who never stops mourning, a weaver of sighs, a singer of sorrow. She would laugh at my verses, shake her head, "Always melancholy, always lost in dusk." But today, the dusk swallowed her whole. No teasing voice, no knowing smile— just the echo of her red saree, a memory stitched in yesterday’s light. How unfair, how cruel, that she read my grief before I wrote hers. That she saw my sadness, but I never saw hers unraveling. She always had words for me, but left none for herself. No scribbled note, no lingering farewell— just silence, heavier than poetry. So here I am, complaining once more, writing of loss she’d have brushed aside. But if she could hear me now, I’d let my words cradle her gently— "You were more than the ending, more than the ache. You were laughter, you were warmth, you were a fire wrapped in silk. And even now, you remain." @sia