notes to no one

I’m not looking to be found. Just learning how to echo.

[notes-to-no-one]

Almost? Never.

Enough? That’s not the question.

Over? Not even close.

So what are we?

Not a memory that lingers.

Not a wound that stayed open.

Not a story waiting to be rewritten.

Not a dream that never came true.

We are something quieter than that.

Something that survived distance,

time,

silence,

and all the lives lived in between.

No promises.

No ownership.

No guarantees.

No map leading us anywhere.

Just two souls,

finding each other

again and again,

through different seasons,

under different skies,

as if recognition

had become a language of its own.

Some people arrive and leave.

Some people leave and disappear.

But some remain.

Not in the way the world expects.

Not as lovers.

Not as strangers.

Not as unfinished business.

Just as a constant.

A place you know exists,

even when you are far from it.

A hand you do not always hold,

but never truly lose.

A connection that asks for nothing,

yet keeps returning.

A thread stretched across years,

sometimes loose,

sometimes taut,

but never broken.

And maybe that is why

we never found the right name for it.

Because names belong to things

that can be easily explained.

And we were never one of them.

We were simply two hearts,

living separate lives,

sharing the same horizon,

and somehow,

after all this time,

still recognizing each other

when the rest of the world has changed.

[notes-to-no-one]

Somewhere They Keep Returning

There are things that refuse to become a straight line

no matter how much life tries to shape them into one

between him and her

there is a place without instructions

without arrival

without a name that fully belongs to it

he speaks like someone who learned early how to hold everything inside

carefully

quietly

as if feeling too much was something to be managed rather than shown

and still

sometimes

it slips through anyway

in small truths he doesn’t fully manage to hide

she arrives like weather that never fully decides what it is

soft some days

restless on others

always real

even when she tries to make it sound lighter than it feels

they do not match in the easy ways

nothing about them was designed to align neatly

and yet

they recognize each other

he sees in her what most people miss

not only what she shows

but what she tries to keep behind her silence

as if he has learned the shape of her unspoken things

and she feels in him something steady

not loud

not promised

but present

in a way that makes distance feel less absolute

there is a language between them that was never taught

made of pauses that carry meaning

of sentences that continue long after they end

of moments that return without being called

and even when they misunderstand each other

even when timing slips between them

something remains intact underneath it all

not destiny

not certainty

not a plan that knows where it is going

just continuity

as if, despite everything that separates them

there is always a part of each

that quietly recognizes the other

and calls it home

without ever needing to say the word.

[notes-to-no-one]

The Nights Still Belong to You

You still arrive

like the sea arrives at the shore,

not violently,

not all at once,

but with the quiet certainty

of something that has memorized the way back to me.

During the day

life distracts me now.

Hours bloom and wither

without your name stitched to every thought,

and sometimes I almost believe

the ache has finally learned how to sleep.

But then,

a song with your shadow in it,

a scent shaped like winter skin,

the softness of evening light on a window,

and suddenly

there you are again,

slipping through the smallest crack in the world

just to find me.

And nights…

the nights still belong to you.

Not in tragedy,

not in grief,

not like ruins haunted by ghosts,

but like an old cathedral

still holding warmth

long after the candles died.

I do not curse what we were.

How could I?

Some loves are too rare

to be regretted.

You were not chaos.

You were the strange peace

of finally setting down a heavy heart

beside someone

who did not make it heavier.

And perhaps that is why

I miss myself when I miss you.

I miss the woman

who softened in your hands,

the one who spoke in silence

and was still understood,

the one who rested beside you

without fear sharpening her bones.

Time moves.

It always does.

Slowly, almost tenderly,

the thread between us grows thinner,

while the distance grows roots and branches,

becoming something larger

than love alone can cross.

Still, I do not think

I will ever completely lose you.

There are people

who leave footprints in the snow,

and there are people

who become part of the winter itself.

You are no longer everywhere inside me,

but there is still

a small room in my chest

where your name sleeps softly

beneath layers of dust and light.

Maybe one day

I will close the door gently,

not out of bitterness,

not because you meant less,

but because life keeps asking the heart

to make space for new seasons.

And still,

if I listen carefully before sleep,

somewhere between the silence

and the dark,

I can hear the echo of us

breathing like a distant tide

inside me.

[notes-to-no-one]

An Unfinished Gravity

We did not shatter.

We thinned.

Like light at the end of a season,

still warm,

but already learning how to leave.

There is love here!

not loud, not urgent,

But the kind that settles into the body

like a familiar climate,

noticed only when it begins to change.

You exist in my days

the way the sea exists in coastal towns:

always present,

even when unseen,

even when untouched.

Loving you feels like living in late autumn

nothing dying abruptly,

nothing fully alive,

just the quiet negotiation

between staying open

and bracing for cold.

I carry you without gripping.

I have learned that holding too tightly

turns tenderness into fear.

So I let you rest

in the soft gravity of my chest,

unnamed,

undemanded.

I don’t ask for everything.

I ask for direction.

For the honest arc of motion

instead of this beautiful, exhausting orbit

around what never quite lands.

What weighs on me

is not distance,

but suspension.

This endless pause

where time keeps moving

and we do not.

I stand now

where feeling meets clarity.

Where love is no longer confused

with patience.

Where hope learns to walk

without dragging the heart behind it.

I don’t blame you.

But I no longer wait inside your uncertainty.

Love that refuses form

eventually teaches the soul

to choose itself.

If you move toward me,

I will feel the shift

like tides answering the moon.

If you don’t,

I will still obey gravity.

Because love like this

does not collapse.

It evaporates into knowing.

And knowing,

once it arrives,

is not cruel.

It is simply

irreversible.

[notes-to-no-one]

The Funniest Thing About Missing You

The funniest thing about missing you

is how I wake, and life goes on.

I go to work, I talk, I laugh,

the hours move, the sun is gone.

At lunch I joke with friends of mine,

and somehow, you slip through the line;

a word, a sound, and there you are,

a ghost that smiles from somewhere far.

The funniest thing about missing you

is that I still fall in love anew,

make plans, chase dreams, see skies brand-new;

and still, they all have shades of you.

Sometimes my phone lights up at night,

and for a breath, my heart takes flight.

I hope it’s you. It’s almost cruel

how quickly I forget that rule.

I wish I could just tell you things;

the tiny wins, the small defeats,

the coffee spills, the songs I sing,

the quiet roads, the empty seats.

The days keep coming, one by one,

and though this ache won’t come undone,

I breathe, I move, I love, I mend

for life goes on, it doesn’t end.

And maybe, when that song plays through,

or when you see a shade I knew,

you’ll feel me there - not gone, just near -

a whisper only hearts can hear.

So yes, I miss you, always will.

But life keeps blooming, soft and still.

If you are well, then so am I,

the funniest truth beneath the sky.

[notes-to-no-one]

Half-Awake

I live now in a half-sleep,

where everything moves slowly

except my heart.

I miss you

with the kind of hunger

that refuses substitutes.

I do not want other faces,

other mouths,

other beginnings.

I want you.

And you are not here.

You do not speak.

You do not arrive.

You exist only as a question

the days refuse to answer.

I know waiting is not a road,

only a circle disguised as hope.

I know I must rise from this stillness,

walk again,

choose myself,

not to find another body,

but to remember my own pulse.

I told myself those kisses were nothing.

Small. Harmless. Weightless.

I said they did not matter.

But now they press against my chest

like unfinished sentences,

like doors left open to the cold.

They were inevitable,

as fire is inevitable

when skin learns the truth of flame.

They were normal,

as gravity is normal

when two souls lean too close.

Now they weigh more than absence.

I do not know

if this heaviness is longing

or the grief of what stopped mid-breath.

Maybe they were never too much.

Maybe they were never enough.

They tasted of more.

They awakened more.

They promised nothing

and still demanded everything.

I wanted more.

I want more

with the violence of tides,

with the patience of the moon,

with the devotion of something

that knows

once is never enough

for what was real.

[notes-to-no-one]

The Kind of Love I Still Believe In

It’s been so long

since I’ve written about what I feel.

Maybe because words

no longer know where to land.

I’ve grown tired;

not of love,

but of searching for it in places

where it no longer lives.

Everyone wants a shortcut to forever.

They want warmth

without tending the fire,

promise without effort,

closeness without truth.

They scroll through faces

as if love were something

you could order

and have delivered to your heart.

But love…

real love…

isn’t made of that.

It’s slow.

It takes root in silence,

in eyes that learn to stay,

in hands that tremble

and still reach out.

Love demands building;

the kind that leaves you dusty,

sometimes lost,

but never empty.

It’s the quiet work of two souls

learning how to hold

without owning,

to give

without disappearing.

Maybe I’m outdated,

a ghost of another kind of love;

one that still believes in time,

in choosing the same heart

again and again

even when it’s hard.

And maybe I’ll never find it.

Maybe I’ll spend another winter

watching the cold gather around me,

listening to the echo of what could be.

But I’d rather be alone

than share my soul

with someone who doesn’t want

to build a home within it.

So I stay here;

still believing

quietly,

with my hope folded small

inside my chest,

in the kind of love

that grows roots

deep enough

to survive the frost.

[notes-to-no-one]

The Place That Was You

I miss you in ways

language can’t hold.

You linger in the pauses

between heartbeats,

in songs that find me uninvited,

in the silence after rain.

I tell myself I shouldn’t;

shouldn’t ache, shouldn’t remember,

shouldn’t still call your absence home.

But grief wears your scent,

and even the wind whispers your name.

You were the calm in my storms,

the pulse beneath my stillness.

With you, I could shed my armor

and not fear the breaking,

you held the fragile parts of me

as if they were made of light.

I miss your eyes

that never just looked,

they searched,

they knew.

Your hands,

those quiet confessions on my skin.

Your voice,

a place where I could finally rest.

Tonight, the certainty that you exist,

somewhere beyond my reach,

is not enough.

I want the warmth,

the gravity of your presence,

the echo of your breath against my neck.

I want to hear the rain

against the window of your chest,

to talk about everything and nothing

until the world forgets to move.

For there are absences

that do not fade;

they bloom inside us,

wild and relentless,

until even the air we breathe

remembers who we loved.

[notes-to-no-one]

If You Come…

Saturday falls like a slow bruise,

and the rain writes your name

against my window;

soft, uncertain, almost afraid

to stay.

There is no crushing loneliness tonight,

only that thin, trembling ache

that lives in the quiet places

you once touched.

A hollow that does not hurt,

but remembers.

I tell myself it’s just a handful

of nights,

a small stretch of sky

between now and whatever

you decide to be.

If you come,

the air will answer before you do:

in the way silence breaks,

in the way a heartbeat stumbles

when recognition walks back

into the room.

And if you don’t…

well, absences speak fluently.

Some doors close

without ever making a sound.

I pretend to busy my hands

with other faces, other voices,

other borrowed lights;

but hope is a stubborn ember,

and it glows even when

you don’t deserve the fire.

I want one more moment,

one more breath pressed

against the mouth of what we were.

Not to dream,

just to know

whether the story is sleeping

or dead.

The truth hangs heavy

as wet branches:

whether you cross this distance

or leave it untraveled,

I will know.

Because longing is a quiet oracle,

and it whispers the same prophecy

over and over:

if you come, I will feel it.

If you don’t,

I will feel that too.

[notes-to-no-one]

Just One More Day

I don’t know how to speak this ache;

it hums beneath my skin,

a hunger made of you.

I want your touch, your breath,

the way your arms forget the world

until they remember to let go;

and shouldn’t.

If I close my eyes, you return,

a phantom warmth,

a kiss half-alive on my mouth,

the echo of your gaze holding mine.

But when I open them;

the room is empty,

and the air remembers you better than I can.

I’d trade anything for one more day,

one more moment to lose myself

in the gravity of you,

to fight your arms only to stay.

Don’t let go this time.

Hold me until even time forgets to move.

Hold me;

today, always,

even if it’s only in the space between

what was

and what still burns.

[notes-to-no-one]

Uncontained

I will not fold myself into smaller shapes

to rest more gently in someone else’s hands.

I am not meant to be half-light,

nor silence dressed as obedience.

What burns in me was born to blaze,

not to flicker for the comfort of another.

If it is too much, let it be too much.

If it cannot be held, let it be lost.

But let it never be betrayed by my own refusal to exist.

Love is not the art of erasure.

It is not measured in how little I disturb the air.

Love is the pulse that dares to be heard,

the flame that refuses the safety of glass,

the ocean that breaks and remakes its own shore.

I will not beg to fit into a vessel

too fragile for the weight of truth.

Whoever comes must come with arms unafraid,

with a heart vast enough to welcome a storm

and call it beauty.

And if they do not -

still, I remain.

Whole, unbroken, undimmed.

For love is not only what is given and returned,

but what survives within me

when I refuse to vanish.

[notes-to-no-one]

Friday Night

It is Friday again,

and the week sits on my chest

like a stone that refuses to move.

No plans,

no laughter spilling across the room,

no body to lean into.

Only the echo of my own exhaustion,

a silence too sharp to be called peace.

I used to worship solitude,

but tonight it feels like abandonment,

like the world turned its back

and left me staring at shadows on the wall.

I want arms,

not promises.

I want weightless minutes,

not the endless grind of hours.

But I am sick of seeking,

sick of the masquerade of desire,

sick of hearts too broken

to hold anything steady.

Love is supposed to arrive sudden,

they say;

a flash, a spark,

a hunger that consumes.

But I do not burn that way.

I need shelter,

I need time.

And time, it seems,

is the one thing no one is willing to give.

So I sit here,

on this black-edged Friday night,

feeling the days dissolve around me.

I exist,

but only as an afterthought;

a body longing for arms

that never come,

a soul that keeps whispering

into a silence that will not answer back.

[notes-to-no-one]

Undeniable

They were never meant to be ordinary.

From the first glance,

the air carried their names,

woven together like constellations

that refuse to shine alone.

The world may look away,

but the truth lingers in every space between them:

a pull that bends time,

a silence that roars like fire beneath the skin.

No disguise can soften it,

no distance can undo it.

The universe has tried;

scattering them into different lives,

into other arms,

into separate dreams.

Yet always the thread holds,

always some secret reason is born

for their paths to cross again.

They are each other’s refuge,

each other’s ache.

Not quite together,

never truly apart.

They are love rewritten endlessly,

a secret written on the skin of destiny,

undeniable,

eternal,

and burning still.

For theirs is not a fleeting passion,

but a fire older than memory,

a promise whispered

before the world began.

An epic written in stars,

a love too vast for endings,

forever finding its way

back to itself.

[notes-to-no-one]

Autumn Without You

It’s Sunday - the first whisper of autumn,

yet the cold has not arrived.

The air is gentle,

but my heart wears a chill

that no season can explain.

I sit in the quiet;

peaceful, yes,

but hollow too.

I try to distract myself with voices on the screen,

with borrowed laughter,

with borrowed lives.

For a while, it works.

Until silence returns;

and in silence,

there is only you.

You linger in the fabric of this room,

in the ghost of your laughter,

in the couch that still remembers

the weight of us.

You are in the music,

in every song that knows our story;

our secret language written

in chords and pauses.

Each one still plays inside me,

in that sacred space that will always be yours.

Nights fall like they used to,

Saturdays melt into Sundays,

weeks slip quietly into each other.

And still, we live apart.

Each of us pretending to have found

a different kind of home.

But deep down, I know:

we are each other’s house,

even if the doors remain closed.

You are everywhere:

in melodies, in silence,

in streets we walked,

in walls that are only shelter now.

Time keeps moving,

as if it could soften the ache.

And maybe someday,

we’ll find another place to belong

or perhaps we’ll finally understand

that there never was another,

and that home was always

the space between your heartbeat and mine.

[notes-to-no-one]

There is no end in us

We tried to leave,

but fire does not learn absence.

It burns in silence,

it burns in distance,

it burns in every shadow we tried to escape.

Time has no power here.

Oceans cannot drown it,

years cannot starve it.

Even when we vanish from each other’s hands,

we return with the same pulse,

the same hunger,

the same unbearable truth.

What lives between us

is not a memory,

not a ghost,

not something that fades.

It is a force;

merciless, relentless,

older than fear,

greater than choice.

And no matter how many times

we break,

we bend,

we walk away;

we are pulled back,

as if the universe itself

refuses to let us go.

Because there is no end in us.

There never was.

[notes-to-no-one]

Once in a Lifetime

Once in a lifetime

you meet someone

who bends the axis of your world,

suddenly, the familiar sky

looks endless,

the ordinary days

feel holy.

They don’t just enter your life,

they rewire it,

teach your silence to sing,

teach your fear to soften.

Once in a lifetime

you find the rarest mirror:

not the one that shows your face,

but the one that reflects

your soul back to you,

the parts you thought untouchable,

the parts you thought unworthy,

seen, held,

without condition.

Not all lifetimes give us that.

But when they do,

you are never the same.

Because once in a lifetime

is enough

to echo forever.

[notes-to-no-one]

The Forever Without a Name

You are not love alone,

nor desire,

nor friendship.

You are the unnamed gravity

that pulls me back,

again and again,

no matter the years,

no matter the silence.

I make no plans,

not out of absence,

but out of fear

that the rarest thread we weave

might unravel if forced into form.

I cannot give you the everyday.

But I give you this:

a place in me

that no time erases,

no distance corrodes,

no other hand replaces.

And if you ever forget,

know this truth:

you are my eternal secret,

my unshaken constant,

the forever

that needs no name.