I forgot to think about you today, and I felt it with every fibre of my being, like the absence of breath in a quiet room, like a song stilled mid-note, or a sunless morning trying to find its way to light.
Are you missing me and the hugs my words gave you, the ones you never asked for but always knew how to keep, folded in the quiet corners of your guarded heart?
It wasn’t intentional, this forgetting of you, but the silence it left echoed louder than words, carving spaces in my mind where your name used to linger.
Did you ever wonder how I could craft warmth from distance or weave tenderness into longing without ever touching the fragile parts of you you tried so hard to hide?
My heart noticed before I did, beating slower, like it missed a step in a dance we always knew, one we never rehearsed but moved through effortlessly, endlessly.
Are you missing me or is it the comfort of knowing someone could see you, not everywhere but somewhere, and still stay?
I forgot to think about you today, and the forgetting became its own kind of remembering. Even in absence, you were everywhere.
I forgot to think about you today, and I felt it with every fibre of my being, like the absence of breath in a quiet room, like a song stilled mid-note, or a sunless morning trying to find its way to light.
Are you missing me and the hugs my words gave you, the ones you never asked for but always knew how to keep, folded in the quiet corners of your guarded heart?
It wasn’t intentional, this forgetting of you, but the silence it left echoed louder than words, carving spaces in my mind where your name used to linger.
Did you ever wonder how I could craft warmth from distance or weave tenderness into longing without ever touching the fragile parts of you you tried so hard to hide?
My heart noticed before I did, beating slower, like it missed a step in a dance we always knew, one we never rehearsed but moved through effortlessly, endlessly.
Are you missing me or is it the comfort of knowing someone could see you, not everywhere but somewhere, and still stay?
I forgot to think about you today, and the forgetting became its own kind of remembering. Even in absence, you were everywhere.
There are two quite typical mistakes for me in this recording. A slight stutter will do that, and yet. I felt that this was the version to share. I know, music as a backdrop would be nice, but so far, this is raw. What do you think?
An exploration of a mysterious, unbreakable connection that transcends boundaries. In searching for meaning, one soul feels the pull of another—a force that’s both comforting and perplexing, moving through shadows and light, beyond time and space. This piece invites you to reflect on the connections that shape us, whether to another person, a deeper self, or something greater.
Inspired by a sleepless night staring at the shadows on the ceiling. The initial thought was this:
What is this thing? When wires and threads are binding her to him? When her shadow is caressed by an angel’s soul? She sees him with her eyes closed everytime she drowns in light. Unknown. Unbound. No time, no space. What is this thing? Is she a puppet of the stars? Is she the end of every story? He grows under her skin, an ember whenever she is freezing cold.
And from there it turned into this:
What is this thing? This… force, these wires and threads, binding me to him. No, not binding—more like weaving, like threads that aren’t even there but somehow pull, unseen, all the same. And there I am, caught in them, feeling every tug, every whisper.
His shadow… it’s there, even when I close my eyes. I feel it, gentle, like the touch of an angel. Sometimes, it feels like he’s cradling my own shadow in his hands, like he knows parts of me I don’t even know myself.
And when I… when I drown in light, in that brightness that blinds, I see him. I see him with my eyes closed, as clear as the sun but… untouchable. Unknown. Unbound. No time, no place, just him… there. Always.
What is this thing? Is it fate? Or am I… some puppet of the stars, some story they’re writing with threads I’ll never understand? I wonder if… if I’m meant to be the end of his story. Or maybe he’s the end of mine. I can’t even tell if we’re moving closer or farther away.
He’s… there, you know? Not in some obvious way, but under my skin. Like an ember. Whenever the world goes cold, there he is, burning, reminding me he exists. Warming the places I can’t reach on my own.
So tell me… what is this thing? Because it’s not letting go, and… maybe, neither am I.
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With the help of Weather Systems and Daniel Cavanagh, my vision for this piece was captured beautifully. The dreamlike music, ethereal, universal lifts my words high above my usual standards.
If you like it, share it with your friends and everyone you know 🙂 And don’t forget to be kind to the creators. A few nice words or a comment are always very appreciated.
This is a piece of spoken word poetry. As you know, I am self-conscious about my lisp and my accent. I think though, that this piece is good and I want you to hear it.
I would be grateful for some feedback. Or if you play the piano, we could maybe collaborate and give the poem a nice backdrop.
I was thinking about this – spoken poetry, for a long while, but I am pretty self-conscious when it comes to my voice. As you all know, I am not a native English speaker, in fact, it was the fourth language I learnt in school and from listening to music. (My mother tongue is Luxembourgish, after that, I learnt German and French – both in school. Due to my Italian roots, I understand the language but cannot speak it, and Dutch is often easily understandable because of the other languages I know). I have an accent. And I have a lisp. It’s not always pronounced but it is definitely there.
Spoken poetry is different from written poetry. Things that sound good in my head or look good on a page don’t necessarily work as well when spoken out loud. Or so I think.
But, I want to give it a try. And maybe one day, I will tell you an entire story. Who knows?!
But first, listen to Fly, Lady Butterfly. It can be read in the book Word Thief – available on Amazon or on this very site.
reflections of an unquiet mind 