An eternal sunset of what we are

The ache is not sharp.
It does not bleed,
not loudly.
It rustles.
It flickers in the corners of the soul,
like wind passing through an abandoned house
that was never built.

We suffer, not from wounds,
but from shadows—
phantoms of lives unlived,
kissed in dreams,
then buried in waking.

We long for impossible things.
Not merely the unreachable,
but the unreal—
the things that cannot be,
must not be,
were never even meant to be.

And it is there,
in that absurdity,
that the deepest sorrow lies.
Not because we can’t have it,
but because we want it,
even knowing
it doesn’t exist.

We miss the scent
of a memory we never made.
We ache for touches
that no hand gave.
We hear music
in the silence between events
that never occurred.

There is a man I never was.
I mourn him.
He walks taller.
He speaks with the voice
I sometimes catch in my head
but never quite use.
He knew when to turn left
when I turned right.
His life trails behind me like mist,
coloring everything I do not do.

There is a woman I never loved,
though I loved her fiercely.
She leaned on the railing
of a balcony I never saw,
under a sky I’ll never find.
Her eyes met mine
in the split-second
before possibility collapsed.
That was all.

And yet I return there—
over and over.
To the love
that could have been.
To the friendship
that died in a silence
never broken.
To the word
not spoken.
To the door
not opened.
To the night
that never came.

It is absurd—
this theatre of half-born dreams.
And yet,
the pain is real.

I do not miss the past.
I miss the echo
of a future
that curled into smoke
before it could take shape.

What is this nostalgia
for what never was?
Why does it weigh more
than memory?
Why does the absence
press harder
than the presence ever did?

The soul speaks in half-tones.
It whispers,
never screams.
Its suffering is not obvious,
not visible.
It is not tragedy.
It is tone.
Texture.
A flavor
on the tongue of thought
you can’t quite place.

It is sitting at the edge
of your own life,
watching the light fade
on a world
you were supposed to belong to—
but somehow missed.

The sun sets not only on the day
but on the self.
Over and over,
a slow descent
into colors
we cannot name.

We are dissatisfied.
Not because life is cruel,
but because it is partial.
Fractured.
It gives,
then takes
what it never gave.

We are whole,
but we feel
like fragments
of a larger self
scattered across unreal timelines.

There is no way to mourn
what never lived.
And so it stays.
Trapped.
Flickering.
Fading and returning.
A bruise that never darkens,
never heals.

The world exists.
We wish it didn't.
Not because we hate it,
but because
it is not enough.
Not aligned
with the internal compass
that points always
to elsewhere.

Even when we are happy—
especially then—
a shade crosses the face.
A second sun
sets beneath the first.

Desire is not hunger.
It is loss.
Loss before possession.
Grief for things
we never held.
And yet we walk around
carrying the weight
of their absence.

We carry
entire lives inside us—
cities that were never built,
languages never spoken,
children never born.
Versions of ourselves
buried in the soil
of what-if.

And the absurdity?
It’s not in the wanting.
It’s in the knowing.
We know.
And still we burn.

Isn’t it strange—
that we can build temples
to ghosts
of what could have been?
That we kneel
before altars
of alternate selves?

There’s no god
but possibility.
And no curse
but knowing it.

We pray not for miracles,
but for edits.
A single moment rewritten.
A pause instead of a yes.
A phone call made.
A glance returned.
An embrace not delayed.

But time does not unspool.
It knots.
And we are left
picking at the thread
of a garment
we never wore.

Still, we dress in it.
Daily.
These clothes of regret.
Tailored to fit
the silhouette
of absence.

We are absurd.
And yet,
we are beautiful.

Because in this eternal sunset,
this half-light
of what we are
and what we never were,
we become something else:

We become the ache.
We become the longing.
And in that,
we become
a kind of art.

Not perfect.
Not whole.
But alive.
Still walking.
Still reaching.
Still burning
for a sun
we can’t ever touch.

But oh,
how golden
the light.

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