I want to be missed.
Not by the world,
not by crowds with banners or noise—
but by one.
By the one who, in the still clock of midnight,
when shadows press against the glass,
whispers into the silence,
I love him.
I wish he were near.
I want to be the ghost in your sleep—
not to haunt,
but to hold.
To pass through your dreams like a hush of warm wind,
to be the ache that does not hurt,
the presence that lingers like salt on the skin after the sea.
Let me be the man who stirs you
when the moon is lost behind clouds,
when the only sound is the low mourning
of a dog forgotten by the world.
Let it be my name your soul reaches for,
not in noise, but in need.
Let my arms be the ones that gather you—
your back drawn to me in quiet longing,
your breath soft against my chest.
Let my body become your refuge
from the swarm of broken things
that crawl through the hours before dawn.
Let my hands tell you stories
your eyes have never read.
Let my touch be the language
that speaks to your sleeping skin,
the fire beneath the hush.
Let morning rise not just with light
but with the calm that follows storm—
our window wet with dew,
your face turning toward mine
not out of habit, but out of home.
Let it be me you remembered
in the dark,
in the dawn,
in the hour when the world forgets itself.
God, if you listen—
take from me this wound shaped like solitude.
Unmake this silence.
Forgive the mistakes that built me.
Teach me how to forgive the one I am.
And if I cannot have joy,
then let me be missed.
Let me belong
for a moment—
even if only in her mind,
even if only in the hour
when shadows advance and nothing is safe.
Let me be the reason someone once believed
in tenderness.
And God—
if there is sleep for lovers,
give me that.
The sleep where chaos is undone,
where the soul is a quiet bird.
But if not—
then let the dark take me gently
at the break of dawn,
in the hush of night,
in the terror of the hour that has no name
Because this life,
without that one moment of being loved,
has no song left to sing.
Broken Author 