You know that feeling?
The weight of words unsaid,
of pages paused mid-sentence,
of stories that never found their end.
We left the ink to settle,
the lines still carved in quiet space.
Not erased, not spoken—
just waiting in the in-between.
You swore the tide never pulled you in,
that the fire never warmed your skin.
Yet echoes stay, they don’t erase—
some truths remain, though left unnamed.
Some moments slip like sand,
some ghosts refuse to fade.
And silence, though it speaks in whispers,
still knows the words we never said.
