If I Were to Play My Own Song



Every love song holds a certain depth—

one that reaches into the heart and doesn’t let go.

Some are sad, yes,

but others aren’t sad at all.

They’re simply felt

so completely,

as if the melody had already lived inside you

and someone else just gave it music.

Like the song comes to life within yourself.


And when I hear those songs,

the ones that say what I’ve never said aloud,

I feel seen in a way that words rarely allow.


But if I were to play my own song,

it could not be a sad one—

even though I’ve walked through pain,

even though I honor every ache that it shapes.

No, mine would not weep.


It would hum with memory,

with hope,

with longing that is holy.

It would be made of quiet knowing

and soft awakenings—

of the way love doesn’t always knock loudly

but enters like light through a curtain.


It would be a song that respects sorrow,

but chooses presence.

A song that lives

not in the past hurt,

but in the truth that heals.


Because love,

true love,

isn’t only the song you hear—

it’s the one that starts playing inside you

when someone simply

sees you.

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Anna, My Sister-Soul