Sonderlust

I have grown addicted
to the weight of unseen lives

to the old woman
who folds the same sweater each winter,
not because the cold demands it,
but because it still remembers
the shape of the man
who no longer comes home.

To the boy laughing at the bus stop,
whose joy arrives late,
after years of learning
that tears echo longer than applause.

To the stranger
walking past me with hurried steps,
carrying an entire civilization
behind their eyes
collapsed dreams, unfinished letters,
the scent of a childhood kitchen,
the sound of a name
spoken only by those now gone.

How extraordinary,
that we mistake each other for silhouettes.

We pass galaxies
and call them strangers.

We borrow seconds
from lives that have spent decades
becoming themselves,
yet never ask
what storms taught them
to smile so gently.

Perhaps heaven
does not keep count of our victories.

Perhaps it remembers instead
the moments we paused
long enough to realize
that every heartbeat
walking beside ours
is a library
we will never finish reading.

And what a sacred grief it is

to know
that the world is overflowing
with people
I will never know deeply enough,
yet somehow
I will spend my entire life
walking through the quiet glow
of their untold stories.

Maybe that is why
the sky never feels empty.

It is stitched together
from every unheard prayer,
every unspoken goodbye,
every invisible life
continuing beautifully
without my witness.

And I

I am only another page
passing through someone else’s horizon,
believing I am the center of the story,

while, somewhere,

I am merely
a stranger
someone almost remembered.

-Ishika