"Your Name in Every Line"

I sat to write of many things—

The way the morning sunlight sings,

How rivers curl like whispered threads,

Or how the stars weave silver beds.

I thought I’d pen a thousand themes,

Of open skies and quiet dreams—

But as my fingers touched the page,

Your name stepped in, like center stage.

I meant to write of distant lands,

Of ancient trees and desert sands,

Of bridges built and fires burned,

Of lessons lost and love unlearned.

But every word I tried to bind

Curved back to you within my mind.

Each metaphor I tried to craft

Became a shadow of our past.

I wrote of rain, it spoke of tears,

I wrote of time, it conjured years.

I wrote of light, but saw your face,

Shining in some other place.

I tried to write of silence deep,

But heard your laughter in my sleep.

And so I knew, with every sign—

You lived in every single line.

I wrote of oceans, wide and bold,

And saw the warmth your hands still hold.

The salt reminded me of nights

We bared our truths beneath dim lights.

I wrote of wind and found instead

The way you spoke and turned your head—

A breeze across a fragile string,

A whisper borne on broken wings.

I meant to write of someone else,

To turn the page, to free myself.

To let the past fall like the dust

From stories filled with broken trust.

But even when I changed the frame,

Each sentence softly called your name.

You were the ink beneath my skin,

A quiet ghost that lived within.

I wrote of hope, and still you came—

Not to haunt, but to remain.

Not to wound, but to remind

That once, I loved with all my mind.

That once, I gave without regret,

And you’re a truth I can’t forget.

So in each pause, and every rhyme,

I etched your name across all time.

I wrote of stars that dared to die

Just to be born in other skies.

And thought of how we tore apart

Only to live in the same heart.

I wrote of loss, of fate, of cost,

Of all the words and things we lost.

But through the grief, and through the shine,

Still pulsed your name in every line.

I wrote of joy—of childhood grace,

Of secret dreams and hiding place.

Yet every joy my mind could see

Was somewhere touched by you and me.

A laugh, a dance, a song, a fall,

Your memory floated through them all.

No matter what I tried to find—

You lingered still between each line.

I wrote of hands I’ve never held,

Of hearts that never quite rebelled,

Of lips that whispered softer lies,

Of strangers passing under skies.

But none could match the weight, the fire,

Of you, my first, my last desire.

The others fade, like cheap design,

But you—your name… remains in mine.

I wrote a line and let it bleed,

It flowed not red, but love and need.

I wrote a verse and let it sigh,

It trembled like a long goodbye.

I wrote a stanza full of grace,

It wore your smile upon its face.

I wrote a poem I called my own—

But it was yours, and yours alone.

I tried to stop. I closed the book.

I turned away. I did not look.

But even in the heavy hush,

My heart would stir, begin to rush.

For love like ours does not retreat,

It simply hums beneath the beat.

And every letter, space, and sign—

Still draws your name in every line.

So let them read, or not at all,

Let judgment rise, let silence fall.

This poem is not for them to know—

It’s where my hidden rivers flow.

It’s where I speak the words I hide,

Where you still walk right by my side.

They’ll see the ink and not the shine—

But I’ll see you in every line.