look what you have left on me –
a bouquet of stitches,
still-healing scars,
fine lines I can’t conceal
etched across my heart.

and what of your voice haunting me?
I hope to God it disappears.
someday, I won’t even remember,
that all of this was ever real.

Is it too late to tell you how i feel?
honey, don’t answer.
I couldn’t bear to hear
all the things you’d have to say.

So keep those lips sealed,
and let me silently pray,
that one day these scars heal,
and fade into nothingness
along with your name.

this poem, honey, is all you’ll get –
not out of cruelty,
but fear.
every time I opened the door,
you’d flinch,
step back,
and leave me
with unsaid words,
and cruel bitterness.

i was always the kind
with a toothbrush to spare
reserved for only you,
not knowing who you'd be.

a friend, perhaps, in need
of a soft bed and duvet,
a midnight love, leaving
just as sudden as it came.

maybe i was always
hoping that my sanctuary
would be enough,
and maybe, just maybe,
you'd peel the old love away,
like paint from a windowsill—

but you never stayed.

sleep-heavy eyes, my hand reaches for you
then flinches – you’re nowhere in view.
the imagined shape only a breath ago
fled like a bandit
into dawn’s dissolving glow.
now my waking mind falters,
disappointment finds the door
through which you chose to leave –
once more.

you are
a burden
I carry
in every breath —
a firestorm
destroying all
ahead.

you are
a monster
waiting for me
to sleep —
an anchor
knotted at my neck,
pulling me
to the deep.

you are
an echo
of my voice
caught in a fight —
the lurking dark
that smothers
all the light.

you are
a void
consuming
the best self I had,
leaving nothing
but the throbbing
in my chest.

and yet,
you are
the question
I can’t answer:
why do I still hold you dear?
that remains a mystery —
even to me.

I tidied the corners,
stories simmered in the chilli,
scattered petals on the grass —
rose-red, next to a single lily.

I’d chosen the music with care,
but laughter co-wrote the score,
each chorus pulling us closer
to something warmer than before.

We bathed in rain, clouds, and sun,
each one carrying a moment,
where secrets come undone,
and quiet truths are spoken.

The fairy lights lit up,
as the world flipped slowly —
a circle of soft goodbyes
turning intimate into holy.

As the solstice faded,
and it struck twelve once more,
a day like this feels sacred,
as the season shifts the shore.

This night won't conclude us,
though the dusk will surely dim.
We are only at the beginning,
on the edge where stories swim.