Do you think of me
the way I think of you?
No, of course not.
I’m certain you don’t.
Your mind roams paths I’ll never know,
wandering through the hills,
chasing the shimmer of the horizon,
where my eyes can’t even dream to reach.
Your thoughts are vast,
like endless lands,
while mine, instead,
have no destination but you.
I don’t blame you.
This isn’t a reproach—it could never be.
I understand.
Time slips through your hands,
fleeting with the weighty things,
those that truly matter in life.
And I, I have so much time,
so much, so empty,
that I can fill it entirely with you.
So here I am,
searching for you in the words you left behind,
turning them over like stones in a river.
I take them,
I turn them,
I caress them.
I try to learn them,
to chew them,
to understand what you meant,
if you meant anything at all.
And all the while,
you remain out there,
somewhere I can’t reach,
with no time to stop for me.
But still, this isn’t a complaint—
how could it be?
I understand, lives aren’t lived the same for everyone.
You have hands for the tangible,
for what’s built and remains.
And I, I have only dreams.
Dreams and this yearning to
drown you in words
I don’t know if you’ll ever hear,
to write you on paper
you’ll never read.
I know there are things inside you
I can’t begin to grasp,
things that slip away
like water through fingers.
But that doesn’t matter, either.
I have time to spare.
So much time that
even the silences you leave behind,
I’ve learned to fill with your absence.
Sometimes I think
you’re like the wind that blows
but can’t be caught.
You brush past me,
leaving my hands cold,
but you never stay.
And I, like a fool,
stand still,
waiting,
hoping that someday you’ll change course,
that you’ll stop, if only for a moment.
I wonder if you’ll ever stop.
If one day, you’ll look back and see me there,
waiting in the shadows.
But maybe not even that.
Perhaps my fate is to bear this waiting,
this certainty that your steps won’t return,
that your eyes are always set forward.
And yet,
I can’t let go of hope,
foolish as it is.
Because, even if you don’t want to,
even if you never come back,
I’ve planted you inside me
like a tree.
And no matter how tall you grow
or how far your branches spread,
I’ll stay here, tending to you
from this distance you don’t even notice.
There are days when I wonder if I made you up.
If what I think you are
is just my dream,
a reflection I conjured to feel less alone.
But then you reappear,
like a ray of light
breaking through the clouds,
and everything hurts again,
just as it always does.
And even so,
I have no regrets.
Because even this pain you leave me
keeps me alive,
reminds me I’m here,
waiting.
So I ask myself:
Do you think of me?
