I found you in fragments,
not in face—but in feeling.
In verses you left on passing winds,
soft, sorrow-laced, and healing.
A selenophile’s sigh beneath moonlight,
your words, aching like autumn’s breath—
and I? Just a stranger
who mistook your sadness for depth.
I wrote not to be seen,
but to leave a trace in your night.
A quiet thought, a flicker—
never meant to become your spotlight.
But maybe I lingered too long,
near a silence not mine to keep.
Stepped into spaces meant for no one,
where your shadows learn to sleep.
And now I retreat, with hands in pockets,
like an evening walk gone still—
where I should've just sat beside,
not stirred a soul against its will.
So take these words like rain on stone,
they'll vanish before they stain.
Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s overthinking—
or maybe... just love without a name.
This is the last you’ll hear from me,
no echoes, no reply—
just a soft goodbye folded in poetry,
and a hope that you reach the sky
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 1:09 PM UTC
I found you in fragments,
not in face—but in feeling.
In verses you left on passing winds,
soft, sorrow-laced, and healing.
A selenophile’s sigh beneath moonlight,
your words, aching like autumn’s breath—
and I? Just a stranger
who mistook your sadness for depth.
I wrote not to be seen,
but to leave a trace in your night.
A quiet thought, a flicker—
never meant to become your spotlight.
But maybe I lingered too long,
near a silence not mine to keep.
Stepped into spaces meant for no one,
where your shadows learn to sleep.
And now I retreat, with hands in pockets,
like an evening walk gone still—
where I should've just sat beside,
not stirred a soul against its will.
So take these words like rain on stone,
they'll vanish before they stain.
Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s overthinking—
or maybe... just love without a name.
This is the last you’ll hear from me,
no echoes, no reply—
just a soft goodbye folded in poetry,
and a hope that you reach the sky
(poetry by a soul who felt too much, too soon)
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