longing for things that never were

there's a certain ache that clings to the ribs when you long for things that never were. it's not the sharp sting of losing something real; no, it's worse. It's the grief of a life unalived. the mourning of ghost versions of yourself you'll never meet.

you sit by the window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, not because you're waiting for anyone, but because somewhere, in a stitched-up daydream, there should have been someone coming. maybe an old friend with a worn suitcase. maybe a lover with pockets full of half-written poems and terrible plans. but no one comes, and no one was ever meant to be. 

you start to miss childhoods you never had - the perfect ones, where the sun always set softly and parents always said the right thing at the right time. you crave summers that only exist in photographs of strangers on social media. you crave cities you've never seen, languages you never learned, late nights that only existed in books written by people who died before you were even born.

it's an endless hunger, a bottomless kind of wanting. you wake up some mornings and you miss a memory that doesn't belong to you. you dream about arguments you never had, apologies you never received, gardens you never grew, wars you never fought.

longing becomes your second skin.

you wear it like a tattered coat even on the hottest days. 

and the worst part?

you can't even mourn it properly. there's no funeral for things that never existed. no condolence cards for could-have-beens. you just carry it inside, a quiet persistent ache, and sometimes it hums a little under your ribs, a broken lullaby for the ghosts of your possible selves.

you sip your coffee, you tie your shoes, you answer emails - all while being haunted by the bitter aftertaste of lives unalived. 

and nobody notices.

nobody ever does. 

born to grieve the unwritten, 

lariene.