You're just a memory—
fading like sunlight at the edge of day,
a flower wilting in the hush of fall,
a river whispering itself away.

And yet...
hope lingers on that fragile thread of what if—
But is it worth holding on,
if all that’s left is space
growing wider
between your name and mine?

I don’t wish for you
to fade like footprints in the tide,
to vanish like whispers in the wind,
or drift away like a ghost at dawn.

I don’t want to forget.
I want to sense you—even from afar,
to feel the hush of your presence near,
to know your soul
still dances with mine
in quiet, invisible threads
that time cannot sever.

His love is more precious than pearls—
not for its shine,
but for the way it holds weight in silence,
for how it’s hidden deep,
yet offered without condition.

He once wrote my initials—
S.C.—
on the back of his hand
in red ink.

Bold.
Unashamed.
A quiet rebellion
against forgetting.

I wonder if the ink
sank into his skin,
leaving a mark
the world couldn't see—
but I could feel.

Or maybe it faded,
washed away with the next rinse,
like so many promises
made in passing.

Still, sometimes I wonder—
when he looks at his hands,
does he remember me?
Or did that ink
only ever stain paper hearts
like mine?

You left me there—
like a story you never finished.
A book on a shelf,
gathering dust,
forgotten with time.

Your interest faded,
and the pages grew cold.
But I stayed open,
waiting to be held again.

Still, I wait—
hoping for that moment
your eyes land on me again,
like they used to.
Hoping you’ll turn back,
give us one more read.

I want to remind you
of the magic we once had—
the rhythm, the pull,
the way we made sense
between the lines.

So I sit here, quiet,
not moving,
but full of everything
we ever were.

Still hoping—
you’ll remember
what it felt like
to hold me close
and never want to put me down.

I keep a library of lovers—
stories from my past,
each one a chapter that didn’t last.
I placed them on the shelves
like well-worn books,
but lately, I wonder—
were they just my faults
bound in pretty covers?

There was one love that had it all—
the fairytale,
the heartbreak,
the lesson.

Yes, it felt like a fairytale once—
so pure,
so full of light.
But looking back,
maybe it was just my young heart
coloring everything golden.

And yes,
it ended like a tragedy.
I reread it over and over,
trying to make sense of the pain.
But now I see—
it was my own hands
that folded the corners,
that tore the pages.

It became a lesson,
though I didn’t know it then.
I held on too long,
afraid to let go—
clinging not to love,
but to fear.

Now, I stand in this quiet library,
browsing through memories
with a bittersweet gaze.
Were they lovers,
or reflections of who I was,
what I needed to learn?

Still, I won’t close the shelves.
I won’t burn the books.
They’re part of me—
each one a mile on the road
that led me here.

Someday, I’ll write a new chapter—
not a fairytale,
but something real.
And when I do,
it’ll be the one
that finally stays open.

In the echoes of your silence,
I found a universe—
full of the words you never said,
the tears you never cried,
and the longing that hung heavy in the air.

I called out to you,
my voice cracking with hope,
but all that returned
were desperate echoes
lost in the space between us.

You stayed distant—
unmoved,
untouched by the storm
that raged inside me.

We were tangled—
in missed chances,
in words that came too late,
in love that never quite found its way.

I gave you everything,
poured it out like a river that couldn’t stop,
but you stood still.
Unaffected.
Unwilling.

In the end,
it wasn’t the things we said
that broke us.
It was the silence—
so loud,
so final.

Now we’re here,
still tethered by hearts too scared to speak,
stranded in the quiet,
held apart by all the things
we never found the courage to say.