Every word I say
already belongs to the past.
Every sentence ends before I’m ready,
just like us.
They say every beginning has an end—
but not every end was given a start.
Like love,
which crept in silent
the moment loneliness collapsed.
Love met my solitude and said,
“You’ve waited long enough.”
but love never promised forever.
You didn’t either.
I’m not ready to turn the page
if you're not written in the next.
The world stands still for you—
pauses in awe.
Even time stares.
Yet you keep moving,
and I stay frozen—
still stuck
in the moment you left.
Are you real?
Was your love real?
Were we?
I question the truth of you,
the truth of us.
The future fades,
but your face lingers in the dark.
I ask and ask
but all I do
is think of you.
We all die in the end.
Some die with joy,
others with silence.
I will die with sorrow
because my hands won’t be in yours.
For those who break,
all that's left is breath.
For those who wait, only pain.
Time stops—you move.
Time moves—I don’t.
When you walk away,
I ask if you ever truly loved.
When I stop chasing,
you wonder if I ever truly stayed.
The final moment is always the first.
The first touch, the last ache.
For your dream, I am parched.
For your voice, I starve.
With you,
I feel like less than whole—a soul missing its mirror.
But without you,
there is no half.
There is only
nothing.
After four years and countless turns of time, I’m still wildly, quietly, endlessly in love with the same man.
And if years are poems, then every line still rhymes with him.
