Maybe This Time “

Maybe This Time"

Maybe this time,

someone played a trick on us—

a love so loyal,

now turned to dust,

fading slowly into colors

we no longer recognize.

It was born

from the moonlight of tears,

soft silver nights

stained with silent cries.

It would’ve been better

if the skies stayed sunny,

if pain never found

a place to rise.

I have no quarrel,

no blame to place.

But how strange—

you couldn’t remember you,

while I can’t forget you

from the hollow of my heart.

A hundred times,

I try to abandon your name,

let go of your shadow,

erase your flame.

But thoughts of you

won’t forget me—

they stay,

even when I beg them to leave.

So I pray—

not for peace,

but for justice in ache.

May you love someone

like I loved you—

with all the pieces

you didn’t know you broke.

And may that fire,

that cruel, sacred burn,

consume your sleep,

make your stillness turn.

May you not be blessed

with sitting at ease,

but feel this pain

with every breath and breeze.

Let your heart

wear my scars someday—

so you’

"Maybe This Time," is not a sigh of surrender, but a blueprint of a scar. It charts the brutal geography of a love that persists as pain, mapping the distance between one person's amnesia and another's eternal remembrance.

It begins in a haunting, almost forensic space: "someone played a trick on us." This immediately frames the love as something beautiful yet fraudulent, a shared experience whose contract was secretly void. The imagery of dust and fading colors speaks not of a sudden explosion, but of a slow, confusing erosion of a shared world. The most piercing observation comes in the third stanza—a masterstroke of relational asymmetry. "You couldn't remember you, / while I can’t forget you." Here, the greatest loss is revealed: the other person lost not just the relationship, but their own true self within it, while the speaker is left holding the ghost of that self, alone.

But the poem's true furnace is stoked in its final turn. This is where it transcends elegy and becomes a stark, incantatory prayer for justice, not peace. The speaker does not wish for forgetfulness or even healing. Instead, they wish for the profound, unsettling gift of empathy, forged in the only way they now believe possible: through shared suffering. The wish—"May you love someone / like I loved you"—is not a romantic hope, but a karmic sentence. It is a desire for the other to be initiated into the sacred, cruel mysteries of selfless love and its inevitable wreckage.

The final, unfinished line, "Let your heart / wear my scars someday—so you’……" hangs in the air like a charged silence. It begs completion: So you understand. So you finally feel me. So the scales are balanced. It’s a cliffhanger not of narrative, but of emotion, leaving the reader suspended in the speaker’s unresolved ache.

This is the anthem of the one who remembers. It’s about the injustice of being the sole keeper of a shared memory, and the desperate, human longing to make that invisible pain visible, tangible, and felt by the very source of it. It’s raw, unflinching, and devastatingly beautiful in its refusal to simply let go and be "blessed."