Hey—
it's me again.
And again.
And yes—again.
Still her.
Still that laugh,
still the way she blinks when she's thinking,
still the absence that fills a room
louder than presence ever could.
I know—
you must be done with this melody by now,
the same refrain
stitched into every breath I borrow.
But allow me—
to never be done.
Let me be the fool
who keeps playing the same note
until it turns into something else entirely.
Not a song,
but a pulse,
not art,
but instinct.
She is not the sun—
no.
She is the shadow cast when it slips behind clouds,
the hush before thunder,
the memory of water
on a dry tongue.
And I,
no longer asking to be spared,
only to be allowed
to marvel
and repeat.
If the world is made of patterns,
let mine be this:
to circle back to her
again
and again
and again—
until even silence
starts to echo.
