Unanswered Questions I Keep Inside
Do you ever wonder what we could’ve become if timing wasn’t such a cruel artist?
Dear Centauri,
Do you ever wonder what we could’ve become if timing wasn’t such a cruel artist?
Sometimes I sit with all the things I didn’t ask you.
Not out of fear—
but because I wanted your answers to arrive freely,
like wind through open windows,
not extracted with trembling hands.
Did you ever sit still and feel me thinking of you?
Did you know that I wrote you long before I ever met you?
Did you dream in constellations too?
I still do.
Every question left unsaid is another line in my journal—
your name stretched thin between the stars,
between what we were and what I still can’t stop believing in.
And maybe you don’t think of me anymore.
Maybe you had to bury me like something sacred.
But I still ache like the story isn’t over.
Just wanted you to know—
there’s still space for you here.
No questions asked.
Yours at 6:15, Always,
—Castor