#sunkissedthoughts

I am too in love with my now to mourn my then

There was a time I would’ve waited

for a ghost to knock on my ribcage

just to feel something rattle.

But today—

the sun dripped warm honey on my shoulders,

and I thought only of the way

I’ve learned to carry myself

without trembling.

There are no ruins here,

no tombstones where your memory once stood.

Just wildflowers

growing in places I used to ache.

I don’t light candles for what we were anymore.

I don’t rehearse your name in my silence.

I let the breeze name me new things—

soft, whole, and still becoming.

And maybe that’s the kindest thing I’ve done for us:

I let go,

not because I stopped loving you—

but because I started loving me.

And if you ever wonder whether it was real—

You were born with a softer edge,

a way of noticing what others miss—

the pause in someone’s voice,

the hunger behind their laughter,

the ache that doesn’t ask to be seen.

This is not weakness.

This is a rare instrument

tuned to truth.

Yes, it bruises you sometimes—

when your love spills into hands

that don’t know how to hold it,

when your generosity becomes a mirror

for someone else’s emptiness.

But don’t confuse pain with proof

that you are too much.

You are simply early.

One day your care will land

where it is met with equal reverence,

where your giving is not questioned

but cherished,

where love moves in both directions

without keeping score.

Until then, stay open.

Stay luminous.

Let the careless pass through

without convincing you

to dim your light.

The world does not need less tenderness.

It needs people brave enough

to protect it.

And you—

You exist somewhere between

time zones and dreams—

close enough for my soul to touch,

too far for my hands to hold.

The distance hums,

a quiet ache beneath my ribs,

where your laughter should be.

Every night,

I build a bridge from memory and hope,

crossing invisible miles

to find you in the softest corner of sleep.

You are the constellations I trace

when the world falls silent,

the voice that finds me

through static and starlight.

It feels as if I’ve known you

in a hundred lifetimes—

like our hearts signed the same contract

long before this one began.

And though the dawn

keeps pulling us apart,

I wake each morning

reaching for your warmth,

believing that one day

the universe will grow tired of the space between us

and finally let me wake

I am proud of who I am now.

I have walked through every kind of fire

and somehow kept my sunlight.

Yet lately,

I feel foreign in my own skin—

I speak with clarity,

my emotions precise,

but still I’m met with blurred vision

and words that aren’t mine.

Why does honesty feel like chaos?

Why does the world hear me less

the moment I start speaking truth?

Sometimes I wonder if we live

in a world so fragile

that genuine feelings sound false,

that authenticity feels like disruption.

I long for people

that see me,

that don’t just endure my truth

I stopped writing about you the day I truly felt happy and loved..(so I thought)

I didn’t notice it at first—

how the lines grew shorter.

The pages stayed blank longer.

My pen, once eager,

now waited for the ache

to return.

You were never mine to keep,

but still—

you used to arrive

like a secret promise.

Now, you arrive

like an afterthought,

and leave

like you’ve already let go.

There are still glances.

Still warmth.

But less of the stolen kind.

Less of the ink-soaked urgency

we used to dance in.

I told myself this was peace.

That maybe poetry lives

only in longing—

and maybe we’d simply

outgrown the ache

that made us immortal.

But some nights,

I trace the space where

your voice used to echo

between my pages.

I wonder if

the poems ended

because I felt so loved…

…or because I started feeling

alone

I am split in two.

My heart aches with love for you,

yet it burns with hate.

I understand,

and still I am lost.

I want only your happiness,

but there is a part of me

that longs to mirror my pain

in you.

When that song comes on,

I whisper your name

into the air,

praying you hear the words

I never say aloud:

I hate you,

I miss you.

Tears fall,

not from weakness,

but from the weight of longing

I never meant to carry.

Every second without you

stretches into lifetimes,

and still—

all I want,

all I crave,

maybe this is where

you remember yourself—

in the quiet tilt

between who you were

and who you’re rising into.

and maybe the tide

has been calling you

longer than you realized,

whispering that even uncertainty

can be a kind of doorway—

the kind you walk through

with trembling hands

and widening lungs.

because something in you

has been stretching for space,

growing restless in the rooms

that asked you to stay small.

now, the walls fall away—

now, you catch the shimmer

of your own momentum.

so go—

let the deep parts of you

take their shape.

let the river you’ve been resisting

show you how to move

without asking for permission.

and when the rising feels too much,

remember:

you were made for this—

for expansion,

for unfolding,

for becoming the version of you

that no past version

could have imagined.

flow.

grow.

This season feels like divine timing.

Every piece of me is in alignment with the core of who I am—

as if the universe finally exhaled,

and I get to breathe in that stillness.

Patience has rooted itself in me,

not from waiting aimlessly,

but from the quiet knowing

that I am exactly where I’m meant to be.

My purpose is not far off—

it’s here, unfolding with each step,

growing louder in the silence.

This is the quiet before the storm,

the golden pause before the adventure begins.

And though life may get wild

in the years to come,

I’ve been waiting for this moment—

this beginning—