I’m writing this
knowing you’ll never read it.
I don’t even know if you you regconize me.
But sometimes
I play our song —
that beat only we would recognize,
the one you sent me in the middle of the night
when we were teenagers,
buried among countless other songs,
but this one stayed,
etched in my heart.
In our dreams,
I hold our baby in my arms
and hum it as a lullaby.
It’s perfect for that.
As I sway softly to the music,
my heart warms and aches,
as if, in some other universe,
this dream wasn’t a dream at all
but a truth.
I love you — you know that.
Or maybe the love I have to give
was never enough for you.
Or maybe it was.
I’m not sure anymore.
We are confused, inconsistent,
like the shift between seasons.
You never know whether to bring a coat or an umbrella,
so we linger in the in-between.
Either way,
the song is saved in my favorite playlist.
I know it’s in yours too.
It’s proof that what we felt for each other
was real.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 3:35 PM UTC
I’m writing this
knowing you’ll never read it.
I don’t even know if you you regconize me.
But sometimes
I play our song —
that beat only we would recognize,
the one you sent me in the middle of the night
when we were teenagers,
buried among countless other songs,
but this one stayed,
etched in my heart.
In our dreams,
I hold our baby in my arms
and hum it as a lullaby.
It’s perfect for that.
As I sway softly to the music,
my heart warms and aches,
as if, in some other universe,
this dream wasn’t a dream at all
but a truth.
I love you — you know that.
Or maybe the love I have to give
was never enough for you.
Or maybe it was.
I’m not sure anymore.
We are confused, inconsistent,
like the shift between seasons.
You never know whether to bring a coat or an umbrella,
so we linger in the in-between.
Either way,
the song is saved in my favorite playlist.
I know it’s in yours too.
It’s proof that what we felt for each other
was real.
