The hopeless romantic that I am
I held onto your rugged hand
over roots and rocks,
our spirits running free in the woods,
leaving footprints no one could see.

We connected through life
and its meaning,
cards, conspiracies—
conversations as deep
as the oceans we swam in,
all over the world.

Memories of laughter
and adventure
welded
our hearts together.

“I love your person,” you said,
tracing your finger
along the scars of my wrist
that mapped my history—
entrusted with my pain,
my protector turned projector.

I sat on the sidelines
of your courtesy,
wept in the center
of your rage,
was backed into the corner
of your fears.

I am the love letters
pinned to the back of your dresser drawer,
the pleasant memory
that drifts into your mind
from time to time.

I am the sentimental gift
collecting dust in your closet,
the nostalgic taste
of your favorite home-cooked meal.

I am the finer things in life
that linger,
only recognized by those who
understand
quality
and rarity
in this modern world.

I am the whispered plans
never written down,
the quiet mornings
that would have held your pain and laughter,
the lullabies
never sung in a home
we were supposed to build.

And now I am robbed
of the future we once shared,
not with violence,
but with the quiet theft—
a life carved in my hands
then vanished
erased
like paths we once walked together.

Yet even in this absence,
I breathe,
learning the weight of my own heart
and the strength
to walk far beyond
the ghost of us.

–The Nonconformist