Gently,
you press the chill of death against my brow,
a tender crown of frost and ash.
What is this trembling within my ribs—
this flutter,
this frantic bird trapped in a hollow cage?

I am emptied,
scraped clean from the inside out.
I have wished for nothing more than this ending,
nothing more than the stillness behind the veil.

Yet shadows mutter like old ghosts,
their whispers clawing at my ears.
They watch me from a distance,
their eyes like nails.

A faint, feral fear creeps up my spine—
it drags its teeth along my nerves,
punishing me for wanting release.
This is all I asked for,
all I begged for,
and still I flinch before the threshold.

Because when death draws near,
your face—
a memory, a wound—
splinters into my mind.
You drift through me like smoke,
and I am undone again,
caught between the hunger to vanish
and the ache of remembering you.

You loved me half,
for never whole,
you held my body—
yet missed my soul.

"We accept the love we think we deserve," they say,
and in your arms, I learned the cost of staying in your ways.
I drowned in devotion, while you stayed ashore,
clutching my hands, but never wanting more.

You kissed my lips, but not my name,
I was your comfort, but never your flame.
Maybe to you, this was all a game,
but I played it with blood, not tokens the same.

For I gave you trust that bent and bled,
built a home from words you never said.
"Hell is empty and all the devils are here,"
and I found them dwelling in your silence, near.

You loved my body, yet feared my depth,
you lingered in presence but absent in breath.
The weight of your half-love became my chain,
a quiet betrayal dressed up as refrain.

And now I’m left, misunderstood,
a loss that cuts deeper than it should.
For grief is sharpest when it hides in disguise—
the death of a love that never fully arrived.

Carried us longer than I knew I could,
a love that burned past the kindling of should.
Yet what is love, if not the art of ache?
"We are all fools in love," and fools do break.

I leave your half for something whole,
a love that will cradle both my body and soul.

You were the first flame I had ever touched,
Yet I misplaced the burn for warmth.
I thought I had found forever
in the brief flicker of your eyes,
a sanctuary where my heart could rest,
a name my soul could grow old beside.

But you—
you fed me hope like poisoned wine.
You spoke of no time for love,
yet spilled your hours so freely
to the laughter of your friends,
leaving me starved
at the edge of your silence.

And something in me died.

Not loudly,
not with shouts or shattering glass,
but quietly—
like a candle smothered by its own smoke.
I became hollow,
a stranger in my own skin,
my reflection blurred,
my name unspoken in my own mouth.

You didn’t just leave—
you unraveled me.
Thread by thread,
belief by belief,
until nothing was left
but a numb echo
of the girl who thought love
meant home.

Yet, now I wander through myself
like a house abandoned,
every room still haunted
by the ghost of a first love
that never learned
how to stay.

There is an eerie silence in waiting—
a hollow ache where time unravels,
a chair left empty,
a breath caught between the ribs
when a shadow
or a song
reminds me of you.

We were not ready—
two trembling hands
unable to hold without breaking.
Perhaps in another life
we will be braver.

But here,
the silence screams louder than words.
The phone glows blank—
a cruel rejection without your voice.
I push it away,
as though distance could sever the pulse
that binds me still to you.

I do not miss you—
not in the way the world defines missing.
I do not yearn for love—
not in the way stories paint it sweet.
Yet somewhere,
a buried vein of me
still bleeds your name.

In the uneasy hush of maybe,
I linger here—
in the half-lit corridor
where absence hums like a haunting.

And nothing haunts me more
than the ghost
of what we could have been.

Tangled within death I faced,
Far beneath the fluttering of your ever long eyelashes,
Twinkle to the sun dancing upon them,
Upwards I look, gazing into the soulful pits of your love,
Roaring a fire into my clouded soul.

The desire you seem is gazed onto the gentle silhouette of my curves,
Yet on me all spark is vanished,
Burned to the grit of my deepestest depair,
Used for one a woman is 'known' best for ,
To be brought with the gentle peace of loneliness ever more.

-The loneliness comforted me more than you ever did.

The moon glides into the sun,
    No mercy is shone from within.
Strands of your tenderness is what remains,
    With the bittersweet fragrance of my tears.
Wept away from ashore,
    Yearned from your absence.
Stranded into the Blissful night,
    Dazzling as the winds whips my locks,
    Wiping the remains of my heart,
     Brushed against my face,
     The moon speaks to me.
A soft whisper guiding me away from my melanchony,
   Look up you say, as all in the end will be okay.

Somehow, your absence is felt,
Like a long pause of a breath,
Until the sharp ****** of pain arise.

You pain me in ways I do not understand,
Ways I did not know damaged,
Yet you made every way possible.

So when that breath is held,
You are not found but your gaze,
Aloof, unmatched in the distance.

Born to love, forced to hate,
Yet you are not forced.

For I was to delusional,
If I thought I took your breath away,
Yet you took mine each day with the pain you pricked along the way.

You stand still,
Unfazed by our tension.

Droplets glide through your hair,
Clinging onto you.

And while we listen to the rain,
Silence is brung upon us.

Your face so warm,
Yet so visibly cold.

Shivering from the inside out,
It doesn't bother you.

And when you look at me,
It's like we've shared a thousand stories.

A thousand words,
A thousand emotions.

Home is your gaze,
Yet I feel the coldness you portray.

As reality is present,
I am soon to realise.

You were the wrong person,

At the right time.

Three dinner mats are placed,
Carefully laid, evenly spaced.

A candle lit warmly,
The ironic sense of home in a way.

Cutlery shining, stating its place,
Though one seems to have been erased.

They're four people,
In this place called home.

The candle was not lit for me,
Bright, present but unknown.

Yet you say its best to leave me alone,
For i am damaged, very unknown.

So I linger, as they're three dinner mats instead of four,

Maybe in another life you will notice me some more.

To light the fire, you held the match
A spark, evolving into something bold,
Bright, encapsulating, beauty like you've never witnessed.

To light the fire, you lit the match,
A connection, a hope,
Remenants of heat between us,
Radiant in your presence.

To light the fire, the match met the woody surface of our love,
Uneven, slow tempered as we settled,
The light shining dimly on the surface,
To capture a essence of warmth.

To light the fire, the match disintegrated into nothingness,
The eventual lie of you,
Turned hideous as you aloofed into another reality,
Too knowing to be bolder.

To burn the match, you pulled it down to the deep imperfections of your life,
Saddened with your expression, a tense controlling of movement.

To light the fire you didn't just burn the match.
You killed it,
And the spark that came along with it.

-FM