So near… yet so far

So near… yet so far

You are so near, and yet so far.
I see your light, I know who you are.
You write, you breathe, you live, you shine so bright,
but nothing of yours is left for me to help or hold,
no word to share, no sign for a little smile.

Inside my chest a forest grows,
with seeds of fire no one knows.
Ideas waiting like birds locked in the darkest cage,
dreams that are burning, waiting for their own stage.

It is not envy, nor hunger for fame I feel,
not crowns, not fortune, not some worldly deal.
What breaks my heart is simpler, yet true…
I only miss the soul in you,
the presence it gives when the room holds it too.

I wish to give all these seeds and dreams air,
sun and sky,
to let them live, to let them grow and fly.
And you – so steady, strong, a pine standing tall,
could give them roots, could make them shine.

Once you had said “We will work as two,
your dream, my hands, together, can come true.”
Like a flower or a garden that never became.
But shadows came and pulled you back,
life demanded, and the path turned black again.

Now you are here, and still… not near,
a voice I don’t hear, just remember the tone.
A step I don’t hear but sense in the distance.
You live, you walk, you breathe, you’re seen,
yet never want to cross the space between.

And I don’t care for the role you take…
friend, guide, or stranger, whatever you make.
I do not seek to own, to bind,
I only wish to free my mind.

To share the fire burning inside,
the song that plays again and again,
to turn all this into living dreams,
to let them flow like hidden streams…
to gift them as presence, as spark, as reality
for someone else. Or maybe you.

And so I grieve this gentle pain,
to know how close, yet lost again is all of this.
A pine that stands, and a flame that burns,
a shadowed path – and here my spirit turns.

So near the walls between, so high the skies above,
yet gone before I reach, before my eyes can close in peace at night.
This is the weight I cannot escape…
to miss the chance to shape the soul I have awake.

So I keep the sparks, quiet and unseen,
not yet alive, not yet real for the world or the sun.
Waiting, pressing inside my chest for a day I can’t name,
perhaps for a stranger who finally will come
not as a thief, but taking them home within.

For him they will shine like fortune and fire inside,
for me they will fade, and my chest will be finally lighter.
For him they’ll be seeds, and birds toward the sun,
for me they’ll be silence, a waited-long gentle sigh.

At last I’ll be empty, yet easy, released,
for him it’s a garden,
for me – gentle peace.

Now I’m waiting for a day unknown,
feeling it so near… yet so far to come.