Whispers In the Wind

Eli//31//he/him "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair."

[batzzzzz]

Rool

[citrusmillie]

all tumbrlinas come from a common ancestor

[visenyaism]

Honestly fuck AI for making me have to go on and on defending the dignity of toil like I’m some kind of protestant

[currentlycryingaboutlancelot]

the funniest part of much ado is after claudio and hero get engaged and beatrice is like “meanwhile I’m over here!!! forever alone!!! I wish someone like don pedro would ask me to marry him haha!!” and don pedro is like “would you like me to marry you?” and beatrice says no.

[paper-wounds]

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— william wordsworth (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[farahquotes]

Some people start living at 30. Before that, they were only surviving - doing what was expected, breathing without meaning, moving through years like borrowed clothes that never fit. Some people die at 20. Not in body, but in spirit. Their laughter becomes routine, their dreams shrink, and life turns into a series of obligations they never chose. Some restart at 40. After loss. After heartbreak. After realising that staying alive isn’t the same as living. They gather themselves slowly, like broken glass learning how to reflect light again. Time is a concept humans created - a calendar to make sense of chaos, a clock to convince ourselves there is order. But life doesn’t follow numbers. In the end, it’s never about age. It’s about when a person finally chooses to be alive. ~ farah

[paper-wounds]

[nixscriptum]

[raelarkpoetry]

My devotion is lunar: cyclical, relentless, eternal.

[raelarkpoetry]

I am Echo,

erased of my own voice,

reduced to repeating

the scraps you leave behind.

Is this guidance?

Is this love?

Or am I just worshipping

the shadow of a man

who was always Narcissus?

[robertjw4688]

I let go of panic

and embrace absurdity

as my body metamorphoses

into a worm.

From the soil,

I scrutinize the stars

and wish upon them

for nothing.

The disconnect

is a torn veil

that brushes against the soul.

I crawl in thoughtlessness.

Forever

is a burden.

Robert J. W.

[raelarkpoetry]

I am feral, feminine, and unrepentant.

[cinder-verse-deactivated2025120]

...just love quiet, steady, true

You ever think about how the things we love they really tell on us? Like little fingerprints we leave behind on the glass of the world. It’s not the big things. Not the loud declarations, not the trophies or titles. It’s the quiet stuff. The songs we hum when no one’s listening. The way we stare too long at a sunset like we’re waiting for it to speak. The books with underlined heartbreaks and coffee stains that somehow feel like part of the plot. I mean some of us love ruins. Old buildings. Wreckage. We find poetry in the broken, maybe 'cause we know what it means to be left standing when everything else has collapsed. Some of us love rain. Not the pretty drizzle, but the kind that soaks you down to your bones and makes you feel like you're finally being honest.

And some some love people they can't have. Not for the drama, but because something in that ache feels familiar. Feels like home. Me? I love moments that don’t ask for anything. A hand reaching out without a word. A laugh that erupts from silence. Those seconds when nobody's watching, and somehow, you’re the most you you’ve ever been. The things we love they know us. They hold up a mirror without asking for permission. They don’t flatter. They just reflect. You say you love the stars? Maybe you’re still searching. You say you love the ocean? Maybe you’ve got depths no one’s dared to swim. You say you love silence? Maybe you’ve been listening your whole life for something that never quite arrived.

So, yeah don’t tell me what you believe. Tell me what you love when the lights are off. Tell me what you’d bleed for without a second thought. That’s who you are. Not the armor. Not the noise. Just love quiet, steady, true.

[arylleth]

to love someone is firstly to confess: i'm prepared to be devastated by you. by A History of My Brief Body by Billy-Ray Belcourt

[cinder-verse-deactivated2025120]

//08A//

A flicker at the edge of my body, a pulse that doesn’t ask for permission. Isn’t hunger just another name for closeness?

I cannot tell where the wanting ends, and the needing begins. My skin does not know the difference… a graze can sting, a sting can soothe, and sometimes I wonder if the wound is the only proof of being held.

What is touch, if not a question asked without words? What is breath, if not the ghost of another’s nearness? Even silence carries its own weight… pressing, lingering, refusing to leave untouched.

I have mistaken the spark for the fire, the tremor for the storm. And yet, in the dark, I cannot stop reaching for the shape of a flame that might not want to be found.

I wonder if closeness is always a kind of trespassing… if to enter another’s orbit is to rewrite their gravity, to mark them with tides they did not consent to.

Do I crave, or do I respond? Am I the predator, or the one who leans willingly into teeth? I confuse instinct for desire, because both leave me trembling, both teach me silence, both write their marks across me like scripture no one else will ever read.

Somewhere inside the blur of surrender, I wonder if I am choosing, or if choice has already dissolved into the ache of inevitability. Perhaps the body has its own prayer… spoken in shivers, answered in scars.

Isn’t the ache of it proof that something has reached me, through the blur of body, through the fog of thought, and claimed me… whether I asked for it or not?

[cinder-verse-deactivated2025120]

//010A//

September drifts in through the open window, gold light pooling across cracked wooden floors, catching dust motes that swirl like tiny memories, moments I once held and let slip through trembling fingers.

Branches scrape against glass, skeletal fingers shaking loose copper leaves that spiral down like fading sparks, as if the sky itself bleeds for what it cannot keep. The streets hum quietly, hollow and empty.

The air tastes of smoke and wet earth, a trace of honey on frost, the tang of rain soaking into stone streets, as though the world remembers the warmth of hands that will never return. Footsteps echo softly on pavement, leaves crunching under worn soles, scattered like fragments of forgotten voices, dripping slowly from the tongue of memory, like a song that shatters just before the note that would have made me whole.

Streetlamps flicker as dusk leans over rooftops, casting long, distorted shadows that twist over brick walls and iron fences, like lovers reaching and missing. The wind lifts paper scraps, tossing them in slow, languid arcs that glint in the fading light, reluctant to let go.

The calendar hangs on a wall, its squares bare and precise, marking time with silent cruelty. Each leaf that falls, each gust that bends the branches, etches lines across the street, tracing shapes that vanish before they can be touched.

Windows darken one by one; a lone door creaks on rusty hinges, and the scent of wet asphalt rises, mixed with the faint, sweet rot of autumn decay, and shadows stretch towards the horizon, mirroring the stillness of air thick with the weight of what was never spoken, with sighs that drip like slow poison down the hollow spine of September.

Evening clouds hang low, their edges burning pink and gold, spilling light across damp rooftops like the fleeting caress of someone I will never touch again. Leaves settle in quiet corners, soft as the memory of lips that do not speak my name.

September exhales slowly, and the city waits, poised between what has passed and what will never return. Pain dribbles down walls and pavements, slips into every crack, weaves into the flicker of dying light. I walk through it, hollow, hands empty, heart brimming with shadows, loving the ache of you, loving the ache that will never stop.

[soul-from-another-era]