Even metaphors get tired
when they start meaning exactly what they say.
No veils. No cleverness.
Just weight.

I used to write in symbols,
now everything sounds like a flat line
dressed in rhythm.
Not dead,
just uninterested in pretending.

There's no poetry in routine.
No metaphor for fading.
It just does.

Somewhere, a line I never said
keeps repeating itself in silence.
And that's the only echo left.

I stopped looking for shape in the noise.
It no longer bends for me.
Even the static feels deliberate now.

I still write,
but not for anyone.
Not even for myself.

Just to see
if the page will flinch.

Some sunny day,
Things will be better.
Less tears to cry,
Less reasons to cry them.
If we can't go on forever,
I'd prefer us to live a happy life.
Happy people are in short supply,
But in high demand.
Some day,
Happy people will be common,
It'll be the sad people who saved themselves,
That'll be respected.

Our embraces linger,
each one carrying the urgency of being the last.
Time, surrendering, pauses to watch us,
and in that stillness
we become two frightened children—
fragile, yet endlessly brave.

To look into your eyes is a perfect moment,
a mirror of dormant memories,
of longing to fly,
and of the persistent hope
that we might find each other again.

Let me hold you once more,
let the caresses on your hands never cease,
nor the gentle warmth of your skin.

Let me feel how our heartbeats
merge into one,
and how the thunder of this union
shatters our senses.

For a moment—perhaps brief, perhaps eternal—
we are splendidly fleeting:
you and I,
completely in love.