Tonight, something familiar rests on my soul —
the same song that once echoed through me,
the same heaviness in my heart,
and the same absence of the one who was once my everything.
I don’t feel like talking about the stars,
or the moon,
or that place I once called my refuge —
where the Northern Lights danced above us.
Tonight, I just want to sink into the ocean of my emotions.
The weight of them pulls me under —
the longing to meet again,
the urge to speak,
to whisper a few sorries,
to ask for forgiveness,
to start the story again.
The story that began with you —
endless calls on the train,
the unfiltered truth in my voice,
the quiet possessiveness I felt for you.
The way you scolded me in that sweet anger,
when I was wrong.
The way you cared.
The way you stayed.
The way you were real.
You gave life to someone who had never tasted
such rawness in love.
You built me a universe I didn’t know I was allowed to live in.
I smiled there.
I laughed there.
I lived there.
But maybe… what I didn’t do
was ask if you were happy.
I became so wrapped in myself,
I forgot to wrap my arms around your dreams.
I didn’t give you space to fly.
And I regret that.
I wish I could go back,
hold my younger self by the shoulders,
and tell him:
“You couldn’t hold all that love
because you never truly lived in the moment.
You were always lost in yourself.
And that’s okay.”
As I grow older,
I will remind myself
to be grateful —
for what is,
just as it is.
Tonight, the words feel slow to arrive.
Not because the heart is empty —
but because it is too full.
The thoughts are wide,
but my pen is small.
