A letter to you

I’m writing because no one else listens quite like you do—

not the ocean that keeps its secrets in foam,

not the wind that carries voices but never answers.

You, at least, hold your silence gently.

I have watched you bleed through clouds

like a lantern too full of memory,

waxing yourself whole, then letting go again—

a lesson I have not yet learned.

When I was a child, I thought you followed me home,

a pale guardian above the telephone wires.

Now I know you follow everyone,

and yet, somehow, it still feels personal—

as if you and I share a private orbit

of sleeplessness and wanting.

Do you remember the night I prayed

for someone to stay,

and the sky cracked open

with nothing but your face?

I wanted to believe you were an answer,

but you were only a mirror,

showing me how to glow

even when half of me was gone.

Tell me, does it tire you—

to rise and fall, to light a world

that never looks up until it’s dark?

Do you ache from being seen only

when the sun forgets to?

I’ve tried to love like you do:

distant, soft, unwavering.

But I am more tide than light,

more pull than patience.

Still, I am learning.

If you hear me tonight,

spill a little silver through my window.

Let me believe, just for a moment,

that someone—

somewhere—

is writing back.

With everything I am,

and everything I’ve lost,

—Yours