Fragments – Forever in Your Arms

Not every song is born from a memory.
Some are born from the spaces in between.
From the places where we sit quietly, waiting for a love we’ve never held,
but still believe might exist somewhere.

Forever in Your Arms didn’t come from a story I lived.
It came from the longing for one I haven’t.
It’s not a celebration of a great love I’ve known —
it’s the shape of the arms I’ve always wished to fall into.
Arms that don’t ask questions.
Arms that hold, simply because they choose to.

There’s a strange tenderness in writing about something that hasn’t happened to you.
It feels like writing a letter to someone who hasn’t arrived yet.
A vow to a ghost.
A promise sent into the air, hoping it might land in the right hands someday.

I didn’t sit down to write this song because I felt safe.
I wrote it because I wanted to believe that safety was possible.

Because there are nights when what hurts the most
is not the absence of love,
but the idea that love could exist and simply not be meant for you.

Forever in Your Arms became the answer to that fear.
A soft rebellion against the thought that maybe I’d never feel that kind of warmth.
It was my way of saying:
“If love like this exists, I want to believe I’m allowed to hope for it.”

The part I chose to share here — these last lines, this closing breath —
they’re not just the end of a song.
They’re the core of what I was trying to tell myself all along:

“Even when we’re old and gray,
We’ll still dance in the rain,
Through every tear, through every smile,
You make this life so worthwhile.
One last wish, one last refrain,
To love you once and once again,
No matter where, no matter when,
I’d choose your love all over again.”