I’ve always loved to write. When I was younger, I would write poems for my friends, sometimes on pieces of illustration board, complete with little drawings to go with them. There was a time in high school when my teacher doubted that the poem I submitted was truly mine. She asked me to write another one, right there in her classroom, on the spot. I still remember the look on her face when I handed it to her, a mix of surprise and quiet pride. She ended up publishing that poem in her subject’s manual.

I never really knew what drives me to write. Maybe it’s because growing up, I learned to be silent, to keep the sad stories to myself. Maybe writing became my way of speaking without having to explain. Or maybe it’s because I’ve always wanted people to feel something , to be pleased, to be moved, to see a little bit of themselves in my words. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s also because I’ve learned to pretend, to hide my pain behind beautiful lines. But perhaps that’s what writing really is a gentle way of telling the truth, even when it hurts.

I’m sharing with you a poem I wrote years back. I actually have a lot of poems and prose tucked away, pieces of myself scattered in words but I’ve always been too scared to share them. Maybe because once they’re out there, they’re no longer just mine. But today, I’m choosing to be brave, even just a little.

CONFESSION TO THE WIND

You came back today

not in body,

but in the way the air moved

when no one else did.

The trees bowed first,

as if they still remembered

how your name once sounded

when whispered through leaves.

You were never mine to keep,

only to feel

a season disguised as forever,

a warmth that never stayed.

The sunlight tried to touch me,

broke into pieces instead,

and I thought

maybe love does that too.

If you must go again,

do it gently.

Let the leaves carry

what’s left of me.

And if you ever return,

don’t come as the wind.

Come as the calm after.

I hope this poem finds you softly and moves something quiet within you.

Love,

Ana 💋

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Author’s Note:

This piece was originally written for the dream I thought would never be realized, a love that lived only in whispers, in passing winds, in the quiet ache between what was felt and what was possible. It is a confession to what almost became real, and the peace found in finally letting it drift away.

But this can also be for the ones who love what they can never keep, for the one who came like a season and left like a sigh. For the kind of love that passes through you like weather, leaving you changed but not destroyed and realizing that sometimes, what haunts us most gently is what once loved us the most.

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