Your words carry the warmth of the sun we once shared; it’s
beautiful that you remember us so vividly. But I no longer long for a version of "us" where love is just a poem. I miss the heartbeat of our beginning: the
pink sticky notes, the absence of walls and the
beautiful urgency of being chosen without hesitation. I miss when effort was as loud as words.
I miss when an hour of my silence prompted
50 messages—tipsy-turvy poems, song clips, and memes—just to get a "digital cuddle." Back then, I never worried about being left on read or
ghosted. If I was busy, you’d simply call at the end of the day, ranting about your life and whispering sweet nothings until I fell asleep. You were ultra-attentive; I felt
safe and prioritized from morning until night.
Now, these poems are just ghosts. I’m longing for the hands that wrote them 832.
Let’s find our way back to *easy.* Link our trust to safety net instead of doubting it as emotional spam. A word if not a rant para will do too. I’m still here, loving you through the hurt, waiting for the
man who writes but fears closeness to finally step through the walls and prove it. 1028 Let’s not just remember the
magic... let’s choose to live it.