Grains of Time: The Erosion of Love and Habit #BlogchatterA2Z #poetry

The clock ticks, but not in seconds, as we might expect. Instead, it measures the slow erosion of stone, a passage of time marked not by sharp moments, but by a constant, almost imperceptible drip. Each drop wears away at the edges, smoothing the once-crisp corners of a life shared. What is left is a familiar curve, gentle and soft, like a well-worn path that no longer surprises, but still, somehow, remains familiar.

The same song plays on repeat. It’s neither a tune that brings joy nor one that evokes dislike—it simply is. There, in the background, a constant hum woven into the fabric of every waking moment. It is the sound of a life unfolding in rhythms too familiar to register. It feels like a phantom ache, the lingering discomfort of a wound that has healed but never quite disappeared, its shadow ever present in the quiet of the day.

And so, the weight of shared history settles around us. It is not the weight of understanding, but of habit—a comfortable silence. This silence isn’t awkward or cold; it’s the kind borne out of routine, of a thousand moments lived together until words are no longer necessary. The same arguments replayed, the same apologies offered, the same forgiveness granted—not because it is desired, but because it has become a necessity, an unspoken agreement we both abide by.

The ghost of a touch lingers, even though the hand has long moved away. It’s the quiet remembrance of closeness, years gone by, yet still present. The taste of a forgotten meal lingers on the tongue, much like the echo of a shared joke whose punchline time has erased, yet the sound of laughter remains—faint, distorted, like a memory viewed through frosted glass. It is a distant warmth, present but dimmed by the passage of years.

On the mantelpiece, the same photograph stands, faded and cracked, yet its presence is constant. It is not the image itself, but what it represents—a reminder of what once was, or what is now, what has endured and what has slipped through our fingers.

And so, this slow burn continues, this steady, unrelenting pulse. It is not fiery or passionate, but it is persistent, like a low-grade fever. It is always there—never truly debilitating, but never truly gone. The arrangement of the furniture remains unchanged, year after year, as if the rooms themselves have grown complacent. The same books sit untouched on the shelf, their spines unbroken by the eager turning of pages. Their presence is not a promise of knowledge, but of comfort, familiarity, as if they are old friends whose stories you know by heart—too well, perhaps.

The same dreams visit you night after night, like a tired guest who never leaves. The same fears resurface, their patterns unbroken, a cycle you can’t quite escape. This is not a peak nor a valley but a plateau—a flat, undulating expanse stretching out before you. It moves ever so slightly, but it never changes.

Rituals remain unchanged—performed morning and night, a silent dance, choreographed by time and familiarity. The same stories are retold to new acquaintances, as if they still carry the same weight, the same magic, the same meaning. Inside jokes, once understood by two, now seem to belong only to one. The silence across the dinner table is not uncomfortable—it simply is, a space filled with unspoken words, emotions unacknowledged, but never absent.

The same routines define the milestones—holidays, birthdays, anniversaries—marked not by deep emotion, but by habit. The same behaviors replay—predictable, reliable, sometimes comforting, yet at times suffocating. This chronic love—this steady rhythm, this heartbeat, faint but always present—reminds you of presence even in absence. A threadbare tapestry, woven with years of shared joy and sorrow, now fading, but barely holding together.

Arguments are avoided, not out of resolution, but out of sheer weariness. Compromises are made, not out of desire, but necessity. Expectations are lowered over time, until only the faintest outline of what once was remains. Memories are selectively revisited—the good polished and cherished, the bad tucked away in the dark corners of the mind.

This chronic love is a quiet endurance, perhaps a testament to time—or perhaps inertia. The same path is walked, day after day, familiar and safe, but limiting in its predictability. The future is envisioned vaguely—a continuation of the present with only the faintest variation. Fears are acknowledged but quickly dismissed, too difficult to confront. Hopes, once abundant, now dwindle, reduced to a flicker in the vastness of time.

Is this chronic love a slow, steady decline? Or is it a quiet form of resilience? The answer remains elusive, lost in the echoes of years spent together, in the language that has developed between two people, a shorthand understood by no one else. What once was a conversation of words is now a language of sighs and knowing glances.

This chronic love, ingrained and ingrained deeply, has become part of the landscape. It is unremarkable, yet undeniably present—persistent, subtle, and ever-enduring, marking the passage of time without fanfare, without change, but also without an end.

#ChronicLove #Time #Habit #Endurance #Memory #Relationships #Routine #UnspokenWords #Persistence

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