Where Every Kiss Becomes a Place
Let us not speak,
nor think of endings tonight.
Let our movement be silence,
our touch the language
softly,
not the empty sort,
but the sacred kind
that wraps love’s shroud around us
like golden threads of twilight light,
woven through your fingertips
and the hush between my thoughts and sighs.

A limber moon leans low above us,
its silver breath gliding soft
across crimson pale vanilla skies,
the last of the sun melting in distance
into soft violet streaks.
Even the horizon blushes
as you press your hand
against the bend of my arm
a wordless promise.

The scent of wild almond, jasmine trails us,
folding into night
with magnolia's sweetness
We walk the path before us,
unhurried,
barefoot and becoming.
Our footprints pressed in white sands
like an unspoken vow
the sea cannot erase.

Oh, this love
it tastes of amber musk and rosewoods,
a flicker in the shifting air
burning slow
with ambered warmth and playful touch,
like incense rising
to stir the heavens
and sharpen the evening stars
into thoughts,
and the sky
into longing.

Let us build our secret sanctuary
in the curl of the ocean’s sigh,
where every glance becomes a verse of a song for which we have no lyrics,
and every touch
paints love
in pastel strokes.

Your voice, low and deliberate,
threads through me
a silk ribbon tugging my name
from the silk of your voice.
I answer in skin,
in pulse,
in poetry.

There is no need to ask
where Eden lies.
It is here
in this soft constellation
we’ve made of limbs and trust,
where lips rewrite time
and our souls lie down
under the scented breath of dusk.

Hold me as if time forgets to move.
Fold me into the story
you’ve only ever told the moon.
Be the myth
and the moth to my flame .
Let me be the prayer
and the flickering candle.

Let us leave behind
not sorrow, but perfume
the memory of honeysuckle
clinging to air,
of warm skin
gilded by moonlight,
of footsteps leading forward
into forever,
where every kiss
becomes
a place we live.

Soft light
Velvet night
Gentle skin
Drawn in

Moon sigh
Hearts high

Flame bloom
Lips swoon
Fever lace
Timeless space

As Love Nears, Winter Answers
I do not greet the day with arms wide
no
I flinch from the light.
Love... is a slow knife in warm skin
and I, already frostbitten,
tuck my longing beneath coats of silence.

There is a chill behind your eyes.
Or is it mine?
Perhaps I’ve worn winter too long,
I don’t know how to thaw without drowning.

You came with a look
like spring pretending not to hurt
but I smelled the snow behind it.
Felt the avalanche between your ribs
and mine.

I wanted to stay.
But want is not warmth.
Want is a wound rehearsing trust
then backing away when breath fogs glass.

I am not made for soft hands.
I am made of doorways and drifts.
Of hearths I never lit.
Of letters I never sent.

So I leave before I feel.
Before the blood dares run hot again.
Before love comes too close
and finds no fire here.

I tell myself
it’s better this way.
To freeze quietly
than to burn
and beg
to be held.

Begin each day
not with conquest,
but with a quiet intention
to soften the world.

Let kindness be your language
before your mouth even opens
a look, a nod,
a held door,
a breath that makes space
for someone else’s pain.

Remember,
everyone you pass is carrying something.
They may not show the weight,
but it is there.
And still
they move.

Live in a way
that alters a single moment.
Change the hour,
the silence,
the heaviness in another’s chest
by choosing grace.

A coffee left at a counter,
paid for by a stranger
you’ll never meet.
A whistle that fills the void
where someone’s laughter used to live.

Be the pause.
Be the small warmth
on a day that began in shadow.

Empathy
is not an achievement
it is a choice,
a quiet rebellion against apathy.

As Whitman said,
don’t just feel for the wounded
become them.
Understand
without needing to fix.
Hold the ache
without fear of becoming broken.

When you give,
give completely.
Anne Frank knew:
you don’t grow poor by giving.
You grow whole.

And in the giving,
don’t seek to rise.
Let humility shape you.
Not the kind that shrinks,
but the kind that listens,
the kind that walks behind
to see the world through another’s eyes.

There are those that remind us:
the world pushes success,
but love asks for service.
It is not loud.
It is not proud.
It is not in the headlines.
But it is holy.

Be the one who says
good morning
first.
Even when it’s not returned.
Be the one who sits with someone
in the quiet
because their storm doesn’t need
more noise.

You don’t need to change the world.
Change a moment.
A mood.
A mind that’s spiraling.
A heart that’s closing.
That’s enough.
That’s everything.

There is no nobility
in being better than others
only in being better
than you were yesterday.

So become a little softer.
A little less certain.
A little more generous.

You are not here
to shine above
you are here to light the path
at someone’s feet.

Let that be your legacy.
Not your name.
Not your voice.
Just the warmth you leave behind
in the places
where it was cold before you came.

You don’t see the harm you do
why would you,
when the mirror only shows you?

It’s always your way or the ruin of all ways.

No compromise, no bending, just command and blaze.

You preach your truths like gospel fire,
demanding love, yet feel no desire
to see the wreckage in your wake
the hearts that break, the hands you take.

Empathy’s a stranger you never knew,
and guilt?
Just weakness in those who do.

Those who love you—oh, how they fall,
on blades you wield, denying them all.

You wear the crown of your own design,
and call it virtue, call it divine.

But your throne is built on shattered bone,and in the end,
you stand—alone.

Love is not a question whispered to the dark,
but a blossom daring the frost to bloom.
It comes not in thunder,
but in the hush between heartbeats
where silence leans in to listen.

It does not ask for witness or applause;
it is the feather drifting from a swan’s wing
as it cuts the mirror still lake of your being.
No blaze, no crescendo,
just a flicker of warmth laid soft on your soul
the feeling that rewrites the geometry of longing in all depths of understanding.

Many will search but you may find it
where whispers of gold dust gather on old windowsills,
in the unpolished spoon resting beside a bowl,
or the way your name feels
when spoken by the curling tongue of someone
who leaves quiet pauses for you to breathe in the moment.

Love wears no crown,
yet it rules the wind and raises oceans
guiding petals to fall where they are missed
and leaves to spin like dancers as they fall slowly
returning home from exile.

There is no map,
only the way the stars rearrange
when you touch the back of someone’s hand
and feel, for the first time,
that the universe answers in quiet.

Even in absence of all things, love sings its song or can be found
in the bent spine of a book shared once,
in the ghost of perfume that lingers on an old scarf,
and in letters written upon fine paper never sent
but folded like prayers
and placed beneath a moonless sky
as if the heavens were meant to understand.

To love is to step barefoot under moonlight in night air
into a cathedral made of warm breath and dusk,
to find within the remnant faint echoes of
a voice that calls you by your truest name.

Let it not be caged by expectation,
nor bent beneath the weight of forever.
Love is the art of being known,
even for a moment,
so entirely
that the world begins again
in the shape of your gaze.

Where Noise Can't Reach
Some believed I was a citadel
stone-walled, serene,
a monument untouched by storm.
Others glimpsed the fissures,
the tremble in my foundation
just before collapse.
But no one dared to knock,
to test if the halls echoed hollow.
They never knew
I didn’t run from people.
I ran from the famine
of being surrounded
yet starved of connection.

The inner silence I chose
was not empty,
but sacred
a chapel carved
from the marrow of self-preservation.
bright coloured mosaics
clouded dull
Because the loudest loneliness
sits beside laughter
that forgets your name.

I watched the world’s masquerade
faces polished like glass,
eyes glinting with absence.
Their words were confetti
bright, falling fast,
never meant to stay
blown by a simple breeze.

So I built my retreat
from quieter things:
dust, breath,
the pulse beneath thought.
I wrapped myself in stillness
stitched from nights that never asked
why I wept without tears,
my loneliness in the dark.

I remember warmth
like sunlight on skin
too long kept from morning.
I remember hands
that felt like promises
before they slipped into memory.
But I also remember
how a touch can vanish
even while it holds you.

Now, I live
in the space between collisions
where no one knocks,
no one shouts,
where the world forgets
and I remember
without bleeding.

Not lonely
just carved into solitude,
a sculpture of what survived.
Not cold
just hidden
where noise can’t reach
and silence finally listens back.