I wrote a poem for you once.
Not about love,
at least not the kind people speak about openly.
It was about your strength.
The way you carried storms inside you
and still spoke gently to the world
as if pain had never touched your voice.
I wrote about your patience,
about the strange courage you had
to survive things you never explained.
You looked ordinary to everyone else,
but I had seen the weight behind your silence.
I knew how hard you fought
just to remain kind.
So I wrote for you
like words could become shelter.
Like if I arranged enough hope together,
your broken days would finally heal.
I told you
you could shake the world someday.
That your mind was too bright
to stay hidden behind sadness.
That even your scars
looked like proof of survival,
not weakness.
And while writing,
I quietly believed
That maybe the poem would save us too.
I thought if I kept encouraging you,
kept reminding you of your worth,
then maybe one day
We would stop hurting each other.
Maybe broken things
could still learn how to breathe again.
But time has a cruel way
of finishing stories
without asking the writers.
Now the year has changed.
The conversations have ended.
And you no longer belong
to the part of my life
where your name felt like home.
Yet sometimes
I still remember that poem.
I remember sitting with all my emotions open,
trying to turn pain into something beautiful for you.
Trying to love you
through encouragement,
through faith,
through words.
And perhaps that is the saddest part of all
I wrote a poem telling you
that you could conquer the world,
while quietly losing mine.
Still, I do not regret it.
Because even now,
after endings, after distance, after silence,
I think the poem was honest.
You were extraordinary to me once.
May 27
May 27, 2026 at 12:30 AM UTC
I wrote a poem for you once.
Not about love,
at least not the kind people speak about openly.
It was about your strength.
The way you carried storms inside you
and still spoke gently to the world
as if pain had never touched your voice.
I wrote about your patience,
about the strange courage you had
to survive things you never explained.
You looked ordinary to everyone else,
but I had seen the weight behind your silence.
I knew how hard you fought
just to remain kind.
So I wrote for you
like words could become shelter.
Like if I arranged enough hope together,
your broken days would finally heal.
I told you
you could shake the world someday.
That your mind was too bright
to stay hidden behind sadness.
That even your scars
looked like proof of survival,
not weakness.
And while writing,
I quietly believed
That maybe the poem would save us too.
I thought if I kept encouraging you,
kept reminding you of your worth,
then maybe one day
We would stop hurting each other.
Maybe broken things
could still learn how to breathe again.
But time has a cruel way
of finishing stories
without asking the writers.
Now the year has changed.
The conversations have ended.
And you no longer belong
to the part of my life
where your name felt like home.
Yet sometimes
I still remember that poem.
I remember sitting with all my emotions open,
trying to turn pain into something beautiful for you.
Trying to love you
through encouragement,
through faith,
through words.
And perhaps that is the saddest part of all
I wrote a poem telling you
that you could conquer the world,
while quietly losing mine.
Still, I do not regret it.
Because even now,
after endings, after distance, after silence,
I think the poem was honest.
You were extraordinary to me once.
