Just once, I want to be the poem,
Not the poet, who spills his soul in ink.
I’ve written hundreds of lines for someone,
Crafted letters filled with unspoken dreams,
Poured out my heart across pages and pages,
And yet, never once was I the verse.

I’ve given my words, my letters, my books,
But never have I been held in someone’s lines,
Never a handwritten letter waiting for me,
Not even a single word shaped just for my heart.

Just once, to be seen, to be felt, to be kept,
To know what it means to be cherished like that.
I long to be the thought someone can’t let go,
To be the poem that lives beyond the page.

-

Past midnight,my phone rang again—
a sound that now feels More like a trigger than a call.

With trembling hands, a racing heart,
and sweat clinging to my skin, I picked it up.
It was her.
Again.

And I knew—I wasn’t the one. I was just… an option.A familiar voice for unfamiliar loneliness.

It took me everything— every ounce of strength to trust again, to stitch the pieces of my heart into something that could still feel.

But tonight, I don’t know if the cracks will stay sealed. Because healing once was hard, but healing again— after being almost loved— might just be the kind of heartbreak you don’t come back from whole.

-

At some point in your life,you’ll learn to be okay—not being chosen,not being found,not even being remembered.

You’ll drift quietly in the background of someone else’s highlight reel, and the world may carry on
as if you were never the center of a story.

But still—you breathe. You rise with the morning light. You hold your own hand in silence. And somehow, without applause or arrival, you continue.

Because even unseen,you are whole.
Even forgotten,you exist in full bloom.
And that, in its quiet defiance,is a kind of miracle.

-

I hope someday,I sleep on the day I’m meant to
not after midnight’s ache,
not tangled in the threads of tomorrow.

Because yesterday,I slept today.
And today,I will drift into tomorrow again,
carrying the weight of hours
that never truly belonged to me.

-

We often romanticise the stars—
their shimmer, their promise, their poetry.
But we forget…
it’s the darkness that makes them visible.

Just like love—
we cherish the bright moments,
the laughter, the light, the ease.
But it’s the shadows,
the quiet nights, the storms we survive,
that make that love shine brighter.

So maybe it’s not just the stars we should fall for,
but the darkness too—
for teaching us where the light truly lives.

-

Can I come home when the funeral ends?
I lingered like a ghost on your footsteps,
a cold-hearted Truscan, forgotten in ruins.
I still cut my sandwiches into parallelograms,
the way you liked—
rituals of grief dressed in crumbs and silence.
Your garden bed,
once blooming with violets and verbs,
has become my graveyard.
Each petal,
whispered a goodbye
I was never brave enough to speak.

-

I have likened many to the moon,
but if it’s you, the moon must borrow your name.
For even with its silver glow, it bears its scars,
while in you, I find no flaw—only perfection in its purest form.
The moon wanes and waxes, lost in its phases,
but you, you shine endlessly,
growing lovelier with each passing day,
pulling hearts into your orbit, without even trying.

-

Sometimes, we struggle to define what homesickness truly is. Is it the longing for a place, the warmth of familiar people, or the comfort of a conversation? Or perhaps, it’s found in the silence shared between two souls. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t missing a person—I was missing the way I felt in their arms. That embrace wasn’t just warmth; it was home.

-

She wakes up before the world stirs, just to watch the sun rise, painting the sky in hues of gold and fire. I, on the other hand, find my solace in the quiet of the night, watching the moon wax and wane, embracing its ever-changing phases.

They say we are too different, that our paths were never meant to cross. But they forget—when the time is right, when the universe aligns, we will meet in a rare, breathtaking eclipse. And in that fleeting, celestial moment, the whole world will stop and witness a love that was always written in the stars.

-

Finally, the pain has faded. It no longer lingers in my chest, no longer weighs on my heart. The wounds that once felt unbearable have turned into quiet scars—reminders, but not burdens. I breathe, and for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t ache. I am free.

-