I have carried this yearning for years,
folded it gently between my ribs,
let it settle in the quiet corridors of my being.
Some days, it is soft—a whisper,
a name that lingers at the edge of breath.
Other days, it roars—
an ocean inside my chest,
pulling, pulling, pulling—
but never drowning me.
He once said he was going home,
and on the way, he found me.
I wonder, was I a stop or a sign?
A shadow along the road,
or the road itself?
He does not belong to the world,
he says to mingle is to lose something invaluable.
And so, I stand at the threshold,
half in the world, half in the unseen,
learning to love someone who is not here,
yet never absent.
Sometimes, my human hands reach for him,
but my soul—my soul knows.
Love is not always about having,
sometimes, it is about being.
And if this yearning is my forever companion,
then let it live within me,
let it carve me into something vast,
something boundless,
something eternal.
I do not chase.
I do not hold.
I wait.
And in waiting, I become!
RS