Fingers Slipping Through

Confessions of a love lost before it could bloom

To you, my love, who I have always loved but never dared to hold,

I’ve never been good at telling people how I feel.
So, I bury my words in silence,
let them rot inside me,
until they ache to be written down.

I love you.
I miss you.
I whisper it to the night,
knowing you will never hear it.

I tried to let you go,
but you are ink spilled on every page of my life.
Even after all these years,
you remain the ghost in every room,
the shadow in every sunrise.
You painted my world with colors
I could never replace.

We were never given time.
And maybe that was our tragedy.
You—too careful to ever show your heart.
Me—too afraid to give mine away.
You wore aloofness like armor,
a chill so perfect the world mistook it for ease.
And yet, I saw the fire you buried.
I felt it in your eyes.

Our stolen glances,
our quick touches,
our shared smiles, our shared laughter—
they were fleeting sparks in the dark.
And I convinced myself they were enough.
But they weren’t.
Love needs air to breathe,
and we suffocated it with silence.

If I had known those moments were our last,
I would have broken every wall,
I would have shouted your name to the stars.
Instead, you slipped through my fingers like sand,
like air,
like a dream dissolving in daylight.

Then came the news of your death.
The world tilted,
the ground stole my knees,
and I realized too late:
death is not the greatest loss.
The greatest loss is the life we never lived.

You were never mine to have,
and still, I lost you.
But if loving you was a wound,
I would bleed again and again.

And so, I write this letter I’ll never send,
because silence was the language of our love,
and silence is how it ends.

Yours, always—
(even if only in words I never speak)

—🌷🦢Written by Deerswanlie. If you liked this, subscribe for more.

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This poem is inspired by the quote above. I do not own it, and I’m not sure who does, but I’ve linked the original source in the photo.