And at last—
the candle realized
it had burnt
by the thread,
it had kept safe
inside its heart.

But even in death,
as it watched the thread
burn along—
longed to protect it.

I could write you a poem but it would never be good enough, for you are a poem

I could write that you are beautiful but my words wouldn't do you justice.

I could write how important and special you are but your value exceeds human understanding.

I could write how wonderful your mind is but my vocabulary is insufficient and weak

I could write how **** you are,
That my body belongs to you,
But my body, my self is unworthy
of you

I want to tell you how deeply I love you
But I'm unable to describe the depth of the oceans

You are the collective works of Yeats, Keats, Shelley and Tennyson.

In her sea of unrequited love I am flotsam—
not even wreckage with a story,
just something left behind,
adrift.

She is the water that carries me,
cool and untouchable,
vast and shining,
indifferent to the fragments she holds.

I do not sink—
that would be release.
I float,
caught in eddies of hope,
drawn near by a glance,
pushed away by silence.

There is no harbour,
no shore with arms outstretched.
Only the endless drift
beneath skies that never speak,
toward nothing,
from everything I once believed.

I am the forgotten,
the unchosen,
the still-loyal shard of something
she never meant to keep—
But can’t quite let go