I’ve always believed I’m a hopeless romantic.
Not for people—though sometimes, yes,
But for the road at night,
The sky that never repeats itself,
And the trees I pass that remind me
What real ones used to look like.

Every car ride is a story I don’t write down.
Every tree—a chapter.
Every shadow—a soft reason to feel
Just a little sad, a little special,
A little like I’ve been dropped
From someone else’s novel into my own.

I am a hopeless romantic because
I still find goodness in everything.
And everyone.
Even when they don’t deserve it.
Even when they’re gone.

I am part poem,
Part rebellion,
And always a bit romantic
At inconvenient hours.

So if you find me
Staring too long at a leaf,
Smiling at strangers,
Or crying quietly on a moving bus—
No, I’m not lost.
I’m just in love
With being human.

November 2025