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[3y2q]

Strange how the days move so slowly,

as if every hour pulls one more breath out of you,

as if time sits beside you,

watching,

waiting for something you don’t even know how to name.

You wake,

you walk,

the same moments repeat themselves

until you feel trapped in a small circle

that never widens

and never ends.

But suddenly..

you turn around,

and realize an entire year has slipped behind you

without making a sound.

As if it tiptoed past

while you were busy

surviving just one day at a time.

And this is the quiet trick of life:

days feel heavy,

each one a mountain,

but the years

they’re painfully light,

lifting off your hands like dry paper,

never returning no matter how desperately you reach for them.

You ask yourself:

When did all this time pass?

When did the features change?

When did the heart become calmer..

or more afraid..

or less trusting?

Maybe because we live each day with its wounds,

but we see the year as a distant picture,

a passing shadow

with no voice.

And in the end..

you understand the truth no one says out loud:

We don’t lose years.

We lose the days we never noticed,

believing they were slow

while they were slipping through our fingers,

one after another.

As if a lifetime is not what we lived

but what we failed to realize

was quietly leaving us.

[3y2q]

They say: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

But they never tell you that some hands were made to open, not to hold.

I once held a bird, afraid it might fly,

afraid of losing the warmth of its voice when night fell.

But fear is heavier than loss,

for what we hold out of fear, never stays out of love.

The bird in the hand reminds you of safety,

but also of the sky that was never yours.

And the two on the branch they are the dream,

the things we love because they cannot hurt us,

the things we long for because they remain unbroken possibilities.

Contentment is not settling for less,

it’s realizing that what you have isn’t lesser than what you lost.

And the bird that slipped from your fingers

might have gone back to the sky to remember you in its freedom.

Sometimes, when we grow older,

we understand that the two birds on the tree were never a promise

they were a test:

will you lose the warmth of your hand

chasing a shadow that was never meant to land?

[3y2q]

There are so many things I placed in the palm of my hand,

but most of them were never mine to begin with.

I ran my fingers over a parked car,

not touching the metal, but the dream

that fleeting moment when you almost believe

something in the world is waiting to hear your name.

How many girls have lifted an expensive bag

in a store flooded with too much light,

staring at the mirror as if trying on another life

one that fits the luxury they can’t afford.

And how many hands have rested on a closed door,

not to open it,

but just to feel what it’s like to belong inside.

We do this all the time

we touch what we don’t own,

imagine it shaped for us,

and leave it as we found it,

but it never truly leaves us.

The thought lingers,

when we wash our hands,

when we lock the door,

when we count what’s left in our pockets

as if that single touch was a promise left unfinished.

Sometimes I think life itself is built on that instant

when we reach for something we know we’ll never have,

just to learn how it feels to almost call it ours.

But there’s another kind of thing

the ones we did own.

They sat in our homes,

in our chests,

in our pictures,

and yet, they never really felt us.

We owned them by name,

and lost them by heart.

As if they whispered in polite silence,

"I wasn’t here to be loved,

I was here to teach you how to lose without breaking."

And so I learned that possession doesn’t prove love,

and that what we never owned

often touches us deeper than what we did.

Maybe everything that passed through our hands wasn’t chance at all

but small lessons teaching us how to love without holding,

to hold without hurting,

and to lose without losing ourselves.

[3y2q]

The more I see, the heavier I breathe.

The deeper I understand, the less I’m surprised.

The details unseen by others pierce me slowly,

like small knives wrapped in knowing.

They laugh, and I read the pauses between their laughter.

I measure silence, translate eyes, decode the tilt of heads.

Awareness shows me what I never wished to see

that some purity was only a sweet kind of ignorance.

Those who know too much rarely trust,

and those who see too deep, fear the weight of people.

Inside me lies a library of comprehension,

but peace left long ago and never looked back.

I see what’s unsaid. I hear what’s unspoken.

And I’ve come to fear meanings more than words.

Awareness isn’t always light;

sometimes it’s a lantern that burns the hand that holds it.

So when I see the unknowing smile, I envy it a little

and whisper to myself,

blessed are those who see no further than the moment.

[3y2q]

So many things will remain shelved under: Where were our minds?

One small moment was enough to settle a long hesitation.

We kept walking past the signs, calling them wind and coincidence.

But the hush in the room kept pointing at the truth with steady fingers.

A glance cut cleaner than a verdict, and everything rearranged itself.

What we’d dragged for miles fell off our shoulders in a single breath.

We laughed at our own blindness soft, a little bruised, a little free.

It turned out the maze was made of us; the exit was a sentence we feared.

A word we refused to say finally said us, and the fog had nowhere to live.

Memory tried to bargain; the heart refused the old discount of doubt.

The night listened, and for once it didn’t add any extra shadows.

We stood still, and stillness did the work we never let time do.

How light the road becomes when you stop carrying the wrong map.

How tender the sky looks when your eyes are no longer busy escaping.

We did not win or lose only learned where the door had always been.

A small scene, a tilt of light, and the question fell quiet.

What remains now is simple: walk forward, face warm with clarity.

And if the mind asks again, we will answer it gently: here, at last.

[3y2q]

Sometimes, I feel nothing.

As if the world paused for me no sorrow, no joy, no reason to speak.

Only a vast emptiness resting in my chest, like a desert without wind.

Faces pass by me as blurred ghosts,

their voices reach my ears but not my heart.

It’s as though I live in a room with no walls,

no single thought brave enough to save me from the silence.

Insomnia sits beside me on the bed,

asking, "Do you still dream?"

And I stay quiet, because dreams abandoned me long ago.

I look for a feeling, but there is none.

No pulse, no fear, no longing just the echo of what once was.

Even sadness has grown tired,

and sits next to me, wordless and defeated.

People? I neither hate nor love them.

They simply walk toward places that no longer concern me.

While I walk inward step by step toward nothing.

And in the deepest point of this stillness,

I realize I no longer seek to be saved,

I only wish.. to finally rest

from the weight of feeling nothing at all.

[3y2q]

When life opens every door for you,

you begin to see that even light can blind.

And when you finally get what you wished for,

you realize the wanting itself was the only blessing you never understood.

Everything owned too much begins to lose its voice.

Things fade when abundance takes root.

And when there’s nothing left to wait for,

time itself dulls, and the days lose their taste.

Fulfillment deceives with its glow

we call it peace, but it’s often a slow kind of death.

To be free from need

is to be free from wonder

and what is life without wonder?

Sometimes I miss the first ache of hunger,

the trembling hope that maybe, just maybe, it won’t come true.

That fear was the pulse that kept me alive.

Boredom isn’t the enemy of the empty:

it’s the curse of those who’ve had too much

and lost the meaning of everything they touched.

When all your dreams have come true,

nothing remains of you

only the echo of who you were when you were still dreaming.

So perhaps sadness, loss, and longing

aren’t curses after all,

but the last threads that still tie us to life itself.

[3y2q]

People fear when emotions knock at their door,

as if the guest comes starving and will never leave.

They believe welcoming sorrow means permanent stay,

so they shut their windows, forgetting that even the longest night has a dawn.

They don’t see that feelings are like drifting clouds,

passing, shading, then moving on, leaving the sky clear.

Those who never treat sadness as a guest

end up with it as a tenant,

devouring their days, never full.

But I have learned sorrow cannot be banished;

you seat it in a corner, offer it silence,

and soon it grows weary and leaves.

Every feeling is a visitor:

deny it, and it returns with a thousand faces;

welcome it, and it departs lighter than it arrived.

The heart is a vast house,

yet some people turned it into a cage,

crowded not with guests, but prisoners.

[3y2q]

We argued with blame, then slipped into silence.

The silence grew heavy, heavier than words.

I thought it would heal, but it became another wound.

You once said, "Just a minute, I’ll be back."

But that minute stretched into years,

and I kept waiting in the doorway of time.

Four years passed like a shadow dragging itself across my chest.

I counted the days as if they were debts I could never repay.

I called your name, but the walls only answered with emptiness.

Silence didn’t just fall between us

it became the language we both spoke.

It carved itself into me, sharp and merciless.

And still, in the quietest hours,

I reach for the echo of you,

wondering if silence was your final gift.

[3y2q]

Your eyes are not wine, yet they intoxicate me more than any ancient cellar ever could.

No vineyard could rival the harvest that spills from your gaze.

Every cup empties and leaves a man hollow,

but your glance fills me endlessly, drowning me in a sweetness that refuses to fade.

They carry storms and tenderness in the same breath,

a contradiction that leaves me trembling at the edges of myself.

When they rest on me, I forget how to walk,

as though the earth itself bends, asking me to kneel before their command.

I burn when they linger, I ache when they turn away.

Desire becomes prayer, and prayer becomes silence,

for no language has ever dared to name what your eyes do to me.

They are not merely windows, they are doors

two gates that open into a kingdom only you can rule.

Each glance is a sentence, each blink a new chapter,

and I, helpless, read you until I unravel.

Weapons rust, pride collapses, strength dissolves

and I stand unarmed before you,

a man undone not by battle, but by beauty.

Wine drowns in the body and fades into dust,

but your eyes dissolve into the soul itself,

etching their fire into places even time cannot reach.

So I confess: I am forever a captive,

and the chains I wear are the glimmer in your eyes.

[w1ld0n3]

Molten puddle. I am naught but a molten puddle of chocolate lava cake and when I read your works. Which then starts to build into heated geysers of steam and iridescence when it catches the sun's gaze.

Your word craft is so genuinely touching and I don't feel like I could ever have the right words to encapsulate how they make me feel, what precious insights they give about the way you view beauty and wonder and romance.

You write like a poet knight in blood and ink stained armour who somehow stepped through time and accidently found themself in front of a digital screen,

one who hopes and dreams and feels every emotion with the fiercest intensity

and t r i e s to both purge and capture it on paper or screen, before it runs away or gets buried somewhere within you that you cannot reach, again. Not often successfully, but just enough to be able to think, to function, again.

It's intensity and sweetness is so very reflective of the feelings that run rampant within me each and every day and I adore your writing. I truly do.

The love within the words is so pure and simple but elegant and passionate, too.

Thank you for writing this, putting it out into the world too.

I think you're amazing. ♥️

[3y2q]

Your eyes are not wine, yet they intoxicate me more than any ancient cellar ever could.

No vineyard could rival the harvest that spills from your gaze.

Every cup empties and leaves a man hollow,

but your glance fills me endlessly, drowning me in a sweetness that refuses to fade.

They carry storms and tenderness in the same breath,

a contradiction that leaves me trembling at the edges of myself.

When they rest on me, I forget how to walk,

as though the earth itself bends, asking me to kneel before their command.

I burn when they linger, I ache when they turn away.

Desire becomes prayer, and prayer becomes silence,

for no language has ever dared to name what your eyes do to me.

They are not merely windows, they are doors

two gates that open into a kingdom only you can rule.

Each glance is a sentence, each blink a new chapter,

and I, helpless, read you until I unravel.

Weapons rust, pride collapses, strength dissolves

and I stand unarmed before you,

a man undone not by battle, but by beauty.

Wine drowns in the body and fades into dust,

but your eyes dissolve into the soul itself,

etching their fire into places even time cannot reach.

So I confess: I am forever a captive,

and the chains I wear are the glimmer in your eyes.

[3y2q]

Sometimes words arrive like shadows,

uninvited, soft as whispers,

slipping through the cracks of thought

and curling around the heart.

I never set out to write a confession,

yet the letters betray me,

dragging each other like chains of silver,

and suddenly I am walking inside

a corridor of feelings I swore I left behind.

Writing is closer to dreaming than truth

dreams do not ask who is worthy,

they simply bloom,

wild, delicate, dangerous.

I thought of you the way one thinks of rain

not for what it brings,

but for the silence it leaves behind,

a silence that clings to the skin,

reminding me I am still alive.

What I wrote was no map, no confession,

only a spark that wandered too close to your name.

A passing flame dressed as a poem,

fading even as it burned.

And yet.. you read it,

and now it breathes between us,

like a secret neither of us planned to share,

but both of us cannot ignore.

Here is where the storm begins

I tell myself it was nothing,

yet your shadow follows me into the quiet.

I push it away,

but it returns stronger,

asking questions I do not dare answer.

Am I drawn to you,

or to the reflection of myself inside you?

Is this desire,

or the hunger of loneliness disguised as poetry?

I circle the questions like a trapped animal,

torn between retreat and surrender.

There is a war inside me:

a voice that begs for silence,

and another that aches for you.

Every line I write is a battlefield,

every pause a wound,

every breath a confession I never meant to give.

And then the dam breaks.

It is not a gentle cracking

it is an avalanche of old small things:

the mornings I kept to myself,

the songs I swallowed,

the promises I let other people make for me.

They tumble together with your name,

and the whole house of my composure caves in.

I find myself shouting into pillow and paper,

words spilling like water from a ruptured tank,

pleas and accusations braided in one long rope.

My hands shake with the tremor of truths I hid even from myself.

I taste the iron of panic and the salt of something else regret, maybe, or gratitude

an ache that is both a wound and a hymn.

I feel the delicious cruelty of wanting you and fearing what you would do to the quiet corners of me.

I love the danger of that feeling and I hate it with the same breath.

The collapse is not neat.

It is rubble, it is fire, it is a long, ragged exhale.

In the wreckage I find a single clear sound: my own voice, raw and honest, calling your name like a lamp in fog.

Now there is no pretending to be untouchable.

Now there are only the open seams and the heat of what I cannot hold back.

Either the silence will answer me with nothing, or this confession will be the small miracle that makes us both unbearably alive.

So I step forward into the ruin and say everything I was afraid to say in neat sentences:

I am undone.

I am still, shockingly, yours if you will have me as both the storm and the calm you walk through.

And if you cannot, then keep this: my collapse, my truth, my reckless confession

a map of how you moved through me and left the world rearranged.

[3y2q]

He lived with earth under his nails, the rhythm of his days written in seasons, not in hours.

The farm was his companion, the silence his language, the wind his only reply.

He never thought much about love not because he didn’t need it,

but because he believed the soil demanded all of him, and he gave it.

When she came, she carried a question in her smile:

"What is closest to your heart?"

He answered without pause, almost carelessly: "The lungs, I suppose.."

Her laughter dimmed, her gaze folded into disappointment,

and she turned away, leaving him with a hollowness heavier than any plow.

That night, sleep would not take him.

He lay awake, the ceiling a field of unanswered thoughts.

He wondered if perhaps the liver was nearer, or if he had confused the body’s secrets.

He measured the chest with his mind, placing organ beside organ,

as if closeness could be solved like the puzzle of a harvest.

Yet the truth hid in simplicity:

She had not asked for biology, but for belonging.

She had not wanted organs, but confession.

The answer she longed for was not lungs, nor liver,

but a whisper that would have lit her soul: "It is you you are closest to my heart."

[3y2q]

There was a time when words ran toward me like rivers,

now they arrive slow, reluctant, as if ashamed of my hands.

The page that once burned with fire now stares back at me, empty,

a mirror that shows only silence.

I touch the pen and it feels heavier than stone,

as if every letter carries the weight of absence.

I wait for sparks, for that sudden rush of meaning,

but all I hear is the echo of what I’ve already lost.

Perhaps it is not the words that abandoned me,

but my heart that forgot how to open its doors.

And yet, even in this drought,

I can still feel the ghost of my passion pressing against me,

reminding me that silence, too, is part of the story.

[3y2q]

She passes like a thought, and stays like a vow.

When she sets her silence between two sentences, meaning widens until it touches skin.

She thinks deeply, and the air trembles at the collarbone.

She lifts a question, and the arteries of meaning and the wrist of pulse quiver with it.

She never says "I want"; she lets the world lean toward her shoulder.

Each time she shuts an eyelid, a door opens in me to an unnamed warmth.

Her mind gleams like a blade; her heart pats the wound like a resting palm.

She walks, and things recover their first names.

When she laughs, my defenses fall like buttons off an evening shirt.

When she thinks, the night steadies along the edge of her lips.

A light breeze crosses her neck, and my fingers spell the alphabet of air.

She speaks an idea, and I learn from its shadow the grammar of touch.

She does not believe in chance; she believes in how the body chooses its favorite thought.

Between her shoulder blades there is a place fit for hanging maps of meaning.

In the hollow of her palm there’s an archive of every shade of calm.

When she comes near, the weight of things changes: time grows heavier, breath grows light.

When she goes, her scent remains a hypothesis you can prove.

She leaves me crumbs of light on the cold tile, just enough to find my mouth.

And in the end she leaves me before a listening mirror, in the elevator lobby, that never answers.

I know her by the way she sits: a straight back, and a desire that tilts.

And by her brief question: how did the night begin to think of us?

I borrow from her posture the courage of clarity, and from her eyes the right to ambiguity.

I think with her: which raises us more the meaning, or the hand that distributes it?

I touch her with the thought first, before I accuse the fingers of everything.

I lean in a little, not only out of respect, but to hear what the arteries say.

I lay my name on her wrist like a temporary whisper, and erase its trace with my mouth.

When she falls silent, my body spells the constitution of silence, clause by clause.

When she speaks, the back becomes a road and the mouth a city.

She says: don’t hurry. So I slow until the heartbeat can hear us.

And she whispers: don’t explain.. and I understand more than is said.

She is a lavish possibility: a mind walking on two legs, a desire that knows its manners.

And I am only a witness who keeps the lesson: that femininity persuades the mind, then smooths the heart with its hand.

[3y2q]

Your silence brushes against me like a fingertip,

not touching skin but tearing into the hidden layers of thought.

The night leans closer, heavy, waiting for my breath to betray me,

and still, I refuse to exhale without your name.

Every shadow on the wall looks like your outline,

every flicker of light carries the warmth of your absence.

Desire doesn’t ask for permission,

it just grows wild in the hollows of my chest.

You are both the wound and the hand pressing on it,

both the fire and the smoke it leaves behind.

And in that paradox, I stay burning,

yet unwilling to step away from the flame.

[3y2q]

Your breath is not a ghost it sears like fire along the hollow of my neck.

The night folds itself around your presence, even if you are only here through words.

Every curve of you belongs to me in silence, traced by trembling letters like hands in the dark.

When I write, distance vanishes; you exist closer than my own shadow.

I want your lips where the lines break, your sigh written into every pause.

Your thighs tighten beneath the rhythm of these sentences, carrying the weight of unspoken need.

Every word becomes a fingertip pressing deeper, every phrase a confession etched into your skin.

If your pulse rises now, it is because I’ve already claimed you between the lines.

I do not speak to all, I speak only to you.

You know this, because your body has already answered in secret.

The wall between writer and reader dissolves; all that remains is hunger made holy.

Your surrender is already carved in me, long before you admit it.

I imagine your back arching against the weight of these words.

Your breath faltering, your skin aflame under the invisible touch of my sentences.

Every boundary collapses, every defense trembles, until you are nothing but pulse and heat.

And in this breaking, you are freer than you have ever been.

Tonight, in the shadows of my writing, you belong entirely to me.

I press you down in ink as if it were flesh, leaving you unable to escape.

The night itself becomes our accomplice, hiding us while it trembles at our fire.

And when your eyes close, I will still be there filling the silence with touch.

Every line burns brighter, every pause becomes a gasp,

until even the darkness moans with the rhythm we create.

I will not stop until you are undone, trembling into my hands,

your breath forever sealed into the poem that wears only your name.