She danced in the rain,
and now the rain tastes like her—
soft, fleeting, sweet.
You love storms because of her,
the way thunder echoes her laughter,
the way lightning traces her silhouette in the dark.
She came to you as a dream,
so now you keep your dreams close,
like fragile things—
too precious to break,
too vivid to forget.
You savor them like stolen wine,
intoxicated by what never fully was.
Because she was always a daydream,
you learned to live in the in-between,
in the quiet hum of insomnia,
where memories don’t fade,
where she still exists—
untouched, untouchable.
She remains your dearest reverie,
a mirror of all you’ve loved and lost.
Yet in her smile, you still see
the colors of a life you once imagined.
That’s why, even now,
you haven’t forgotten how to smile.
And when you see her,
you greet her with the same quiet joy,
as if no time has passed,
as if nothing has changed.
And nothing has changed—
not really.
You are still you.
She is still herself.
The feelings linger,
not as wounds, but as embers—
warm, glowing,
still lighting your way.
You wish her no harm,
only peace.
You ask for no revenge,
only grace.
Let love remain love,
even when it’s unrequited.
Let endings stay gentle,
not burned to bitter ash.
You are still you.
Let her be herself.
And may the world be kind enough
to leave some hearts unbroken.