The Echo of What Was Not

A sea that makes no waves, without clear foam,
only a slow retreat, a tired and mute echo.
It is the undertow of every choice no longer dear,
of a silent future, now lost,
the path untaken, the promise unsaid.
There is no sharp regret, nor thunder that assaults,
but a gentle shadow caressing the soul.
The eternal whisper of what knew no color,
the sweet absence of pure beauty
that never bloomed, buried in silence.