Good evening, it seems
I’m swept away by the rhythm of my own awareness
A memory of that day lingers—
you greeted me,
while I blushed.

Days slip into days,
time trickles through minutes,
feelings once faint and unclear—
now you knock,
awakening me when everything is weary.

At ten o’clock,
I write of you
in verses that never find their end.
I pen the final paragraph on a page titled feeling
not knowing why I was in such a rush—
unaware I was falling
into a darkness that never truly forms.

Just one reason:
I’m trying to heal
from the pain that—once again—has pained me.

I’m not asking for your apology
I just want silence, even if it looks like pain.
I just want distance, even if we’re still close by.
And you?
I don’t really care to know.
I’ve poured all I feel into verses laced with ache
about someone whose name I no longer whisper in prayer,
someone who chose to betray both himself and those who loved him.
Chance;
a single word,
yet it holds so many meanings.
If given a chance,
I would never have chosen this person to lead a family.
If given a chance,
I would’ve spared a mother the weight of a wound she never voiced.
That is what “chance” really means.
But everything feels so easy
when we live in “what ifs.”
When all seems fine on the surface,
but underneath—
a deep, dark hole waits,
never fully seen.