If The Heart Remembers
The words no longer arrive easily.
Once they came like breath,
as if you were still beside me,
listening between the lines.
Now they falter,
searching the quiet for your name,
uncertain if the echo that answers
is still you.
The ache remains—
a pulse beneath the stillness,
the sound of loving
someone who has become silence.
Yet memory lingers.
Your voice, a hand
tracing the edges of my soul.
Your gaze, a language
that needed no translation.
You said my name
like a promise remembered
by the stars.
You once swore you'd find me again—
through storm, through silence,
through the soft undoing of worlds.
And I believed you.
Those words became my thread,
the one I hold when everything else
threatens to come undone.
You were home.
Fire and calm.
Sanctuary and stormlight.
Now I walk among what remains,
touching the memories
like half-burned photographs—
fading, fragile,
still unbearably alive.
I do not want to let go.
Not of you.
Not of the love that still hums
between one breath and the next.
Perhaps it is foolish,
this wanting that refuses to sleep.
But I let it stay,
gentle as dusk,
fierce as prayer.
Because even now,
beneath the weight of distance,
something in me still turns toward you—
as if the heart remembers
its way back home.
And if somewhere,
in another version of us,
in another world,
you remember,
I hope you still whisper back—
I know, love. I feel it too.
YOU ARE READING
In Every Version of Every World
PoetryA soft anthology of alternate endings and love that lingers. Quiet poems, what-if reflections, and tender scenes from other lives - where love comes back, or maybe never left at all. For the ones who still wonder what could've been.
