I write,
Because I can not scream.
If I scream,
I will break all the windows,
Of buildings I created.
I write,
Because otherwise I will die,
With unsaid words and soul.
If I scream,
I will hurt people,
That I love too much to lose.
I write,
Because I have no choice,
To live other life.
Where I would be able,
To say words I am not able to say now.

Sometimes the most beloved person is behind us.
Waiting for us to see those tiny things they do.
They somehow manage to be always there without us realising.
Laughing with us till the last breath.
Supporting us with the most unusual way from the very far.
Telling us what to do with the quiet whispers in the back.
Saying speeches that nobody does.
We don’t even think about how much they mean to us, until it is goodbye.
We miss the things they did, or said.
They become our routine characters with out our permission.
Somehow they are those ones we think about when we are low.
They made the world brighter even with no stars.
Sometimes we need to just look around, maybe they already are there -
Waiting for us to see those tiny things they do.