I long for the love that I don’t have.

I yearn for the home that does not exist.

Where fingers trace stories on windows of rain,

And silence sits soft like a kiss on the wrist.

I wander in places my feet never touched,

Where moonlight remembers the names I forget.

The hearth I imagine still burns in the mist,

A warmth I have never quite met.

The murmuring brook sings a song just for me,

Its voice like a whisper I almost believe.

Soft rain wraps my shoulders in silken regret,

As I walk through a forest that will never leave.

The clouds in the valley once curled at my feet,

Like a sigh from the earth too heavy to keep.

I stood on the hill, all the world far below,

And still, no one waited, and still, I let go.

Yet sometimes the wind knows the weight that I bear,

It hums through the leaves like a half-uttered prayer.

And just for a moment, my heart finds its place—

In the hush of the forest, in the rain’s quiet grace.

A window half-open, not begging, not shy,

Lets in a breeze that forgets how to cry.

No promises spoken, no endings in sight—

Just the hush of a maybe wrapped soft in the night.

May 2025

(image: AI generated)