It isn’t sadness, not the sting Of some remembered, broken thing. It isn’t grief, for nothing’s lost, No final line has yet been crossed. It’s more like smoke, a silver haze, The feeling of alternate days.
It’s like the ghost of a tomorrow, A joy you didn’t get to borrow. A phantom ache for a life half-glimpsed, A sentence that you left unlimpsed. The muscle memory of a choice You didn’t make, that has no voice.
There is a warmth behind your eyes, A silent, questioning surprise. You feel the echo of a word You almost spoke but never heard. A strange nostalgia, sharp and deep, For promises you didn’t keep Because you never made them yet. A sun you watched that never set.
You mourn a home with a different door, A room you’ve never stood in before. You miss the cadence of a laugh From someone on a different path. It is a heaviness and grace, For a time you know, in a place That never was. A hollow touch. It doesn’t ask for very much.
It has no name to call it by, You only know it with a sigh. It visits, leaves you feeling blurred, Both spoken for and wholly unheard. A resident of what could be, Who pays no rent, but lives in thee.
Pam Beach “Beyond the Blog
If you enjoyed the poem feel free to caffeinate the creator. https://beyondtheblog.org/power-the-next-post/
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