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  • Mountains that hold their breath for you (Marcella Boccia)

    Mountains that hold their breath for you (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 4 2025
    Mountains that hold their breath for you (Marcella Boccia)

    The mountains stand still in the silence of your name,
    their peaks trembling as they cradle the wind,
    waiting for the moment you will return,
    like the echo of a song that never fades,
    carried in the breath of the earth,
    whispered in the space between stars. They hold their breath for you,
    these ancient sentinels of stone,
    worn by time yet unyielding,
    their shadows stretched long across the valleys,
    as if the very land remembers the footsteps
    that once traced their jagged paths. In their stillness, I feel you,
    the pulse of your heart beating
    in the rhythm of the wind that wraps around me,
    a breath of you in every gust,
    a presence that haunts the peaks
    where we once stood,
    and now, the mountains wait in silence,
    as if they too, long to hear your voice again.
    Oh, love, do you hear them?
    The mountains that hold their breath for you,
    the same mountains that carried our dreams
    and whispered our secrets into the sky.
    They have not forgotten,
    nor will they ever let go,
    of the memory of your touch
    that once soothed the earth beneath our feet.
    And so, the mountains wait,
    forever still, forever watching,
    holding their breath for you,
    for the moment you return
    and the world takes its first breath again,
    and the earth rises from the silence
    to greet you like a lover,
    whispering your name in the wind.
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    3 Min.
  • The ghost of your hands in mine (Marcella Boccia)

    The ghost of your hands in mine (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 4 2025
    The ghost of your hands in mine (Marcella Boccia)

    There is a ghost that haunts my palms,
    the faint imprint of your hands in mine,
    woven into the fibers of my skin,
    where your touch once lived,
    and now, only the echo remains.
    I reach for you in the quiet of the night,
    and in that hollow space,
    I feel you as though you never left—
    the warmth of your fingers tracing paths
    along the edge of my soul,
    as if the distance between us
    were nothing but a fleeting thought
    lost in the folds of time.
    Your hands—soft as a forgotten prayer—
    lingered once in the spaces between us,
    and now, they slip through my grasp,
    a memory that slips between my fingers
    like water slipping through a broken glass.
    And yet, I hold on,
    to the ghost of your hands,
    for they are not gone,
    but live in the spaces where love once bloomed.
    They are the pulse of a past that will never fade,
    the whisper of a promise that never breaks. So, I wait,
    with the ghost of your hands in mine,
    feeling the tender weight of what we were,
    and knowing, in the quiet corners of my heart,
    that no distance can erase
    the touch of you that still lingers,
    woven into the fibers of my skin,
    where your hands once were,
    and still, forever, are.
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    2 Min.
  • A prayer woven in absence (Marcella Boccia)

    A prayer woven in absence (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 4 2025
    A prayer woven in absence (Marcella Boccia)

    I have woven a prayer in the threads of your absence,
    each strand a memory, each knot a whispered longing.
    The silence of your leaving fills the spaces
    where once your voice was a song upon my heart,
    and now, it echoes only in the hollow between breaths.
    Oh love, how do I speak to you now?
    When the air no longer carries your name,
    and the stars refuse to shine in the places
    where we once danced beneath their gaze?
    Still, I call you with a prayer not of words,
    but of the spaces we once shared—
    the quiet places where the soul touches
    what the body cannot reach. In this absence,
    I have learned to listen
    not to the sound of footsteps,
    but to the absence between them,
    not to the words we spoke,
    but to the silence that carries them onward.
    I have woven you into the fabric of the night,
    each thread a sigh, each moment a prayer
    sent up in the smoke of a fire
    that no longer burns,
    but whose warmth lingers on the edges of my skin.
    So I whisper to the wind,
    not for you to hear,
    but for the world to feel—
    the prayer I have woven in your absence,
    a prayer that will remain,
    not as a plea for return,
    but as a testament to the love
    that has no need of presence
    to live and breathe
    in the spaces we have left behind.
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    2 Min.
  • Fading letters on the lips of the moon (Marcella Boccia)

    Fading letters on the lips of the moon (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 4 2025
    Fading letters on the lips of the moon (Marcella Boccia)

    The moon, pale as a forgotten dream,
    whispers to the night in fading letters,
    carved upon its lips in silver strokes,
    a language only the stars can understand.
    Each word drifts, like a forgotten prayer,
    carried away by the silence between breaths,
    and in the stillness, I hear you,
    not in the shapes of letters,
    but in the spaces they leave behind.
    Oh, love, our names were once written
    in the light of that moon,
    but now they fade,
    like ink dissolved in the tide of time,
    and yet, the echo of your voice lingers
    in the soft curves of the moon’s pale face.
    The wind does not remember our touch,
    the earth cannot hold our footsteps,
    but the moon still cradles our whispers,
    and the fading letters we spoke to each other
    are etched upon the sky
    as if time itself could not erase them. In the quiet of the night,
    I reach for you in the dark,
    my hands tracing the words the moon forgets to say—
    and in that silence,
    I find you again,
    not in the fading letters,
    but in the love they leave behind,
    written on the lips of the moon.
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    2 Min.
  • Where the wind forgets to carry you (Marcella Boccia)

    Where the wind forgets to carry you (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 4 2025
    Where the wind forgets to carry you (Marcella Boccia)

    There is a place where the wind forgets to carry you,
    where the silence of the air speaks louder than breath,
    and the world stands still,
    holding its secret in the curve of a forgotten sky.
    Here, the earth whispers your name,
    not in the language of the living,
    but in the quiet murmur of the past,
    where time folds its wings
    and dreams no longer wander.
    The wind once sang your presence to me,
    a song woven from the thread of moments we shared,
    but now, it carries only the scent of absence,
    and the weight of words left unsaid.
    Oh, love, do you hear it too?
    The silence that blooms between us,
    like a flower that never opens,
    its petals closed to the touch of time.
    In the place where the wind forgets to carry you,
    I search for your shadow—
    not in the places we once walked,
    but in the spaces where silence wraps itself around me,
    and I wait for the winds to remember.
    For even here, where the world moves on,
    there is a stillness that holds us,
    a love that cannot fade,
    for it is written in the very air,
    where the wind forgets to carry you,
    but never forgets to carry me.
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    2 Min.
  • Footprints lost in time (Marcella Boccia)

    Footprints lost in time (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 4 2025
    Footprints lost in time (Marcella Boccia)

    In the sands of forgotten years,
    our footsteps vanish,
    soft as whispers in the wind,
    carried away by the breath of time.
    Once, we walked with the earth beneath us,
    our souls tangled in the rhythm of the world,
    but now, only echoes remain,
    like the faintest memory of a song never sung.
    The path we traced is now a dream,
    faded, blurred,
    but I feel it still—
    the touch of your hand in mine,
    the warmth of a moment lost
    beneath the weight of endless days.
    Time, a thief in the night,
    steals the traces of our journey,
    leaving behind nothing but silence
    and the soft ache of things we can never reclaim.
    Yet in the stillness of the passing hours,
    I find you,
    not in the places we once stood,
    but in the spaces between the seconds,
    where love lingers, untouched by time.
    Our footprints are lost,
    but they are not gone,
    for they remain in the heart of the earth,
    beneath the sky that saw us walk—
    a silent testament to the love
    that time cannot erase.
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    2 Min.
  • In the silence between our names (Marcella Boccia)

    In the silence between our names (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 4 2025
    In the silence between our names (Marcella Boccia)

    In the silence between our names,
    where the world forgets to breathe,
    I hear you—
    not in words, but in the space between,
    where every heartbeat is a question,
    and every breath an answer we never spoke.
    We are echoes,
    our souls caught in the pause of time,
    your presence like the wind
    that touches without touching,
    soft and cold,
    a shadow that lingers even in daylight.
    I carry you like a dream
    that slips away with the dawn,
    but leaves its fragrance in my hands,
    a scent that lingers on my skin
    long after you have vanished
    into the realm of forgotten moments.
    Oh love, do you feel it too?
    The weight of what was never said,
    the space between us where nothing exists,
    but everything is born and dies
    in the quiet dance of longing?
    In the silence between our names,
    we are both lost and found—
    woven together in a thread so fine
    it cannot be touched,
    only remembered.
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    2 Min.
  • Echoes of your vanished dawn (Marcella Boccia)

    Echoes of your vanished dawn (Marcella Boccia)
    Feb 4 2025
    Echoes of your vanished dawn (Marcella Boccia)

    In the quiet of the morning’s breath,
    where shadows linger like forgotten prayers,
    I search for you—
    your light, once a fire in the sky,
    now only the whisper of a promise broken.
    Your dawn was a song I did not know I would miss,
    its warmth like the first touch of summer,
    and we—so young, so alive—
    watched the world unfold in the curve of your smile.
    But time, relentless, stole the colors from our skies,
    and I, now a wanderer of yesterdays,
    am left with nothing but the echoes,
    soft and haunting,
    of a light that no longer rises.
    Oh love, can you hear it too?
    The sound of your vanished dawn
    calling to me in the stillness of the hours—
    a faint trace of laughter in the wind,
    a memory I cannot hold,
    but can never let go. Your sunrise is a story now,
    a dream that I keep buried beneath my ribs,
    where it flickers like a candle,
    fighting to stay alive
    in the cold and endless night.
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    2 Min.