Late evening spills across the shore,
wine and laughter dripping through the veins of my friends.
The horizon sighs,
a tired sun melting into water,
where silver waves swallow the last warmth of day.

At the edge of the harbour,
lights tremble like distant prayers,
fragile fireflies trapped between sea and sky.
Voices scatter around me,
every mouth painting visions of what they see,
but my eyes are fixed on something else,
a secret country that belongs only to us.

Sweden.
Not the place, but the dream we carved,
a word we folded into promises,
a shape stitched into silence.
I do not share it,
I only let the thought escape,
half a whisper,
half a confession to the night.

Memories flood without warning:
your sudden question about my freedom,
a simple sound that cracked the surface of me.
The ache of emotions,
pure, untranslatable,
returns like salt in the tide,
burning and cleansing at once.

Nostalgia wraps its hands around my throat,
but I do not fight it.
I sink into it willingly,
a soft drowning,
an ocean I will never leave.

No one will ever understand this weight,
not them,
not you,
not even myself.
The lights remain.
They flicker like pulse,
like heartbeat,
like a secret language only we spoke.

To me,
they will always be Sweden.
I still believe in it,
believe the way children believe in endless summers,
believe the way we once swore we would never forget.