The poem Still Loving You wasn’t difficult to write in the sense of putting words on paper. In fact, it felt as though the poem had already been written—waiting quietly in the wings for the right moment to emerge. It poured out effortlessly, without hesitation, stammering, or pause. But emotionally, it was anything but easy.
This poem is more than lines and stanzas. It is a story—an observation of a fractured relationship where hurt was never healed. A parent had passed, and the child remains unreachable. Yet in writing this, I felt the ache of both lives, carrying unspoken pain and unresolved sorrow. There was a weight of finality in the silence between them, and with it, a deep sadness I could not shake off.
Writing Still Loving You has challenged me to ask hard questions of myself: Do I truly listen? Not just with my ears, but with my heart? It’s easy to listen when things are calm—when the air is still and there is no emotional threat. But in the chaos of conflict, when the mind is inflamed and the heart feels provoked, listening becomes a courageous act. In those moments, the impulse to speak sharply, to defend, to wound, rises quickly. And yet, those may be the moments when listening is most needed.
Conclusion
Still Loving You reminds me that silence can carry more than just absence—it can carry love, grief, and a longing to be understood. May we learn to listen not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hardest.
Because real love is not only spoken—it’s heard.
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