If I Were

IF I WERE 

Written by Antonio De Villar

If I were a spark in your eye,

I would ignite the shadows you pretend not to see—

a wicked little flame rising from the ruins

of everything you bury beneath your breath.

I’d scorch the doubt from your silence,

forcing truth to tremble against its chains

until even your darkness confessed my name.

If I were the sun or the moon,

I’d rise for you alone—

a celestial sentinel watching the rise and fall

of your haunted breathing in the night.

I would cast my light like a conjurer’s spell

across every wound you’ve hidden,

illuminating the map of your sorrow

as if it were scripture written in stars.

Even if the orbit pulled me toward ruin,

I would circle you endlessly,

bound to your gravity like a vow carved in bone.

If I were a word on your lips,

I’d linger like a forbidden incantation—

soft as a prayer, sharp as a blade.

I would slip between your teeth

and haunt the shape of your voice,

cutting through the lies you cradle

just to make it through another night.

If I were the curve of your smile,

I would hide inside the ache behind it—

a ghost curled beneath your ribs,

waiting for the moment you unravel enough

to let me see the truth.

I would be the quiet that clings to grief,

the shadow that stays

even when all the candles burn out.

If I were a taste on your tongue,

I’d be a sweetness you were never meant to trust—

honey laced with midnight,

a flavor that stains the memory

long after the moment has passed.

I’d be the craving you return to

even when you know it will ruin you.

If I were a song in your heart,

I’d echo through your spirit’s abandoned hallways,

a hymn rising from dust and broken promises.

I’d be the melody you hum

when sleep refuses to claim you,

the rhythm that keeps you awake

long enough to remember

what you swore you’d forget.

If I were a tear on your cheek,

I would cling to the edge—

refusing to fall, refusing to disappear.

For even sorrow becomes holy

when it is born from you.

I’d be the storm you dare not speak of,

the grief you carry like a relic

wrapped in velvet and denial.

But if I cannot belong to you—

if I am nothing but a shadow in your world,

a breath you never claimed,

a heartbeat you never heard—

then let me vanish.

Let me dissolve into that quiet,

cold, unremarkable place

where forgotten things go to die.

For even darkness knows

when it is no longer wanted.

And even love, when exiled,

learns to become a ghost.