When I see you now,
in quiet images and borrowed light,
something old in me stirs awake.
Not nostalgia exactly
more like recognition.
There is a longing I cannot pretend away,
a missing shaped like your name.
I carry regrets, yes,
but also a strange gratitude
for what still refuses to fade.
I ask myself if it is wrong to admit this,
how strongly I am drawn to you,
and the word want feels too thin,
too casual for something this deep.
What I feel presses closer to need,
though even that does not quite hold it.
Nothing about this is simple.
I do not know the shape of the road ahead
or where it might finally lead.
But I know where my hope stands,
quiet, steady, and unmistakably yours.