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| If life had a remote control, I’d press pause without hesitation. Not to escape, but to catch my breath the way an old radio catches a clear signal after a little tap. Silence can be generous when the world stops spinning long enough for you to hear yourself think. In that stillness, you face the truth you keep outrunning: you’ve been moving fast, but not always forward. And yes, I’d hit rewind. Not out of regret, but curiosity. I’d like to watch my younger self again, stubborn as a goat and twice as hopeful, walking into rooms with more courage than sense. I’d study the moments where I should have spoken and the ones where silence would have saved me. I’d look at the choices I made for love, pride, fear, and the sheer thrill of believing time was endless. The past has this strange way of feeling both close and unreachable. You remember the details, but you can’t touch them. Rewind would change that. I’d walk back into old days with the wisdom I’ve scraped together, slow and careful, like a craftsman restoring a cracked piece of wood. Maybe this time I’d handle myself with a little more grace. Maybe I’d stay where I once ran. Maybe I’d leave where I once lingered too long. But the truth, quiet, persistent, almost old-fashioned, is that life doesn’t give us remotes. It gives us memory, which is softer than we want, and hope, which is harder than we expect. We can’t edit what came before, but we can honor it. We can choose to let the rewind live inside us, shaping the next play, the next pause, the next brave step. So if life ever hands me that mythical remote, I’ll use it. But until then, I move forward, carrying every version of myself like chapters in a book I’m still writing. And maybe that’s the real miracle: the chance to do better not because time bends, but because we do. |
| You are holding something tender. Something real. A debut, yes, but also a heart, opened gently, laid bare in verse. This is not just poetry. It is breath. It is memory. It is what love becomes when you dare to feel it all. These pages carry the soft and the stubborn, the sacred and the aching The kind of love that doesn’t ask permission to exist. It is for those who’ve loved fully, foolishly, fearlessly, and despite. Before you begin, a quiet note: Because of how Writing.com arranges pages, You may find the beginning at the end, The middle is hiding in plain sight, The poems are slightly scattered. But love isn’t linear either. Maybe that’s the point. So read with patience. Read with breath. Let the order find you the way love often does: unexpectedly, but right on time. If these poems hold you, let them. If they move you, share them. You might place something soft into another waiting heart. This is where I begin. Where I say it aloud. This is Te Amo, Alberto"Te Amo, Alberto..." . |
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