There’s something so tragically lovely about falling in love with someone who feels like a poem you’ll never finish. I keep writing you in margins, in dreams, in soft sighs I pretend are just the wind.
You were never mine to keep, but in some small, haunting way, you were mine to feel. And now every dusk tastes like your absence—familiar, inevitable, and strangely gentle.
There’s a certain kind of loneliness that doesn’t feel empty. It feels full—of thoughts, of echoes, of soft sadness that wraps around you like a fading song.