Poetry of love

Echoes in My Head, All You

You’re not here anymore, but somehow you never left.
Not really.

You’re in the hum of the late-night silence, in the flicker of the streetlights outside my window. You’re in the scent of old coffee cups and the taste of songs I can’t stop playing. You’re in my thoughts so much it feels like a haunting — a ghost that breathes, a memory that won’t stop speaking.

Everywhere I turn, it’s you.
Not your face, not your hands, not even your voice — just traces.
The echoes.

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The Way Memories Speak Louder Than Silence

They don’t tell you that memory has a sound. That it whispers, hums, rattles like an old record stuck on repeat. Even when I try to drown it out with noise, you’re still there — a note under the static, a heartbeat I can’t unhear.

I’ve tried everything to quiet you. New people. New places. New routines. But you slip in between the spaces anyway. It’s like you’re carved into the walls of my mind, and no fresh coat of paint can cover you up.

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When Love Becomes an Echo

I think the hardest part about loving someone who’s gone is that your mind doesn’t know how to let go. The heart breaks, the body leaves, but the mind clings. It takes their words, their laughter, the way they said your name, and loops it endlessly — like a prayer or a curse.

And so you go on, living with their echoes.
Trying to build a new world around the ruins of an old one.
Trying to remember who you were before the noise started.

Learning to Live with the Sound

Maybe I’ll never fully erase you. Maybe the echoes will always be there, faint and fading, like a song played too many times. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the echoes are proof I loved. Proof I felt something real.

And maybe one day, when the noise has softened and the pain has dulled, I’ll hear those echoes and smile — not because they’re gone, but because they no longer hurt.

Until then, I’ll live with them.
The echoes in my head.
All you.