blah blah blah

love is just blah blah blah
until you’ve been in it,
until you’ve felt it burn you,
felt it lift you up,
until you’ve spun around
under starlight
thinking this is it,
the real thing, finally,

until it fades
to echoes, to the hum
of old songs on repeat,
and you’re left wondering
why every line they sang
was just blah blah blah
when all you really needed
was someone
to stay.

roses & snow

roses and snow,
they bloom and fall in different worlds—
one warm with love,
one cold with silence.

roses bleed under the sun,
snowflakes vanish at touch.
a beautiful contrast,
red against white,
but they never meet, never speak
the same language of love.

they touch,
but will always stay apart,
meant to remain two.

roses bruise, snow fades.
they don’t mingle,
they don’t mix.

only blood and snow ever do.

ache of almost

you are the unfinished poem,
the line i never learned to write,
and i am the echo
of every unsaid word.
we are two souls,
strangers caught in the rhythm
of what could have been,
walking side by side
in a world too vast
for our paths to ever cross again,
and yet, in my dreams,
i still feel your hand
resting lightly
in mine.

soul hunger

there’s a place inside me
that only knows the language of longing,
a hunger that isn’t for food or drink,
but for the warmth of a hand in mine,
for the breath of another soul
that whispers,
yes, i see you,
yes, i am here, too.
sometimes, all we want
is to be held by someone
who knows the emptiness
as intimately as we do.

the memory of touch

your touch still lingers,
like sunlight warming forgotten skin,
and though we are miles apart,
some days i swear
i can feel you there,
an invisible hand pressed softly
against my heart,
reminding me of the love
that never left,
the one that still holds me
even now.

soft and infinite

love, i’ve learned, is less
about possession
and more about the spaces
we create,
the quiet moments
that stretch on
like soft waves, infinite,
and in that gentle tide,
i let myself float
in the peace of knowing
that love, like water,
needs no name
to carry me.

the beauty of being seen

you saw me, once,
in a way no one else has,
as if my heart was an open book
you had been waiting to read,
and i, a hidden story,
finally coming to light.
for that moment, i knew
what it felt like to be known,
fully, without fear—
a love like sunlight
breaking through the clouds,
leaving me bathed in warmth
i never knew i needed.

beneath the surface

the world pretends,
doesn’t it?
children with small hands reaching for dreams
we keep high on the shelf,
while empty streets echo
with promises left broken,
hope dangling like thin thread,
and still,
they look up,
waiting for something
more than words.

monday mornings

the coffee whispers,
not today, not today,
but you drink it anyway,
and it’s bitter,
like the small truth that keeps you awake,
like the sky, too tired to stay grey,
and suddenly, you’re more alone
than even your shadow could ever know.

single like a city light

single, sure,
but there’s a glow to it,
i am my own skyline,
my own map to the stars,
and it’s fine—
most days—
though, sometimes,
i wish for a hand that could trace
the constellations on my skin
and make sense of this mess of stars.

independence’s secret

strong, loud,
a woman who could carry cities in her stride,
but in the quiet,
when even the silence hums,
i find myself wishing
for warmth, for something soft,
for a love that feels like rain on rooftops,
not because i need it
but because
i want to be held
by more than just
my own arms.

ghost letters

i write to you
in the language of what-ifs,
in words i’ll never say,
because love is not always spoken aloud,
and sometimes the truest things
live only in silence,
in the spaces between us,
in the shadows of all
that might have been.

for those in the shadows

we speak of kindness
like it’s sunlight, limited, fleeting,
but there are faces we turn from,
people who fade into the edges
of our carefully framed world,
and they stand, silent, watching,
as if waiting for us to remember
that they, too, belong
to the light.

the things i forget

i always forget the milk,
the little things that matter
only in moments of missing,
like you,
a small ache that rises at night,
craving the sweetness
of something simple,
something close
that i never quite
manage to bring home.

poetry, or the art of rebellion

words are more than breath,
they are the spark before the fire,
a soft revolt hidden in every line,
poetry teaches me
that there are worlds
built on phrases,
that even the quietest voice
can carve a path through silence,
can change the world.

city’s silent hum

in the rain, the city blurs,
a grey heart beating slow and steady,
and i watch from high above
as lives rush beneath umbrellas,
colors dancing across the wet concrete,
each step a song we’ll never hear,
each one carrying
a small universe of their own.

a fierce kind of freedom

i need no one to reach these heights,
i’ve learned the weight of my own wings,
but sometimes, i wonder—
if two could fly higher,
if love could be the wind,
and in those quiet moments,
i let myself imagine
arms around me
as we soar beyond what’s seen.

edge of ruin

you taste like danger,
like a secret i should never keep,
and i am drawn, helpless,
to the way you pull me under,
every whisper a promise
of broken things,
of wild nights and shattered dawns,
and yet i cannot resist
the ruin you bring.

venom

your words are poison,
soft and deadly on my skin,
and i drink them down,
craving the bite,
the thrill of your hands
on me, rough and relentless,
leaving marks i won’t forget,
because this, my love,
is a fever i never
want to break.

the pull of shadows

there is a darkness in you,
one that mirrors my own,
and when we collide,
it is like stars imploding,
a chaos too beautiful to contain,
and i am drawn into it,
surrendering to the way
you pull me apart,
piece by piece,
until i am nothing
but your shadow,
bound and breathless.