the snow falls gently from the sky
as if whispering its secrets
each flake a miracle
but none of them stay

they land, then vanish
melting into nothing
like promises forgotten
like moments we couldn’t hold

school is done for the year
but the days slip away too quickly
and the snow reminds me
not all miracles are meant to last

memory is not a photograph,
not a keepsake tucked in the back of a drawer.
it is water against stone,
wearing away, reshaping,
turning sharp edges into something smooth,
something unrecognizable.
i do not trust it.
it lies in soft whispers,
changing names, shifting colors,
blurring what was sharp, sharpening what was dull,
twisting the past into something that never was.
but forgetting is no mercy either.
i try to let go,
but memory is a house i still live in,
one with doors that do not lock,
windows that do not shut,
ghosts that refuse to move on.
every corner of this house is haunted,
rewritten and forever rearranged,
like when you called me beautiful,
and i had tears in my eyes,
you kept saying it and i didn’t believe it,
or did that even happen at all?
so i stay,
trapped between remembering and forgetting,
watching the walls crumble
as the echoes rewrite themselves.

beneath the moon’s soft silver glow,
the tides reveal what hearts don’t show.
a fleeting whisper, a fragile tide,
secrets kept where dreams collide.

you reached out
on january 7th in 2024,
and i haven’t stopped
loving you since.

in music,
in poems,
in every sleepy
“goodnight, i love you.”

you are the quiet
i want to come home to.
my comfort,
my constant,
my boy.

i read,
reread,
your poems not once,
not twice,
over and over
like a mantra.
sometimes a little bit of you
is enough.
and sometimes,
it’s not.

julie is soft strength,
a quiet kind of knowing,
she says “i love you” like breathing,
and means it every time.

manda is a wildfire,
messy and loud and full of heart,
she will fight the world for you,
and never ask for thanks.

livie is my reflection,
stormy one second, laughing the next,
she understands me in a way
that doesn’t need explanation.

they hold pieces of me
i forgot i gave away,
tiny, stubborn fragments
i’d never find alone.

they are not the same.
they are not always gentle.
but they are mine.

and they are everything.

“if you’re having a bad day, tell me.”
“i have a hard time doing that.”
“well, we could talk about it.”
“i don’t want to talk about it.”
“then just tell me, so i know.”
“but i’m always having a bad day.”
“then tell me.”
“okay.”

you told me “pain means progress,”
and now i hear you
in the ache of every muscle,
in the quiet burn that comes after trying.

not because we worked out together,
but because you said it once,
like it was nothing,
and it stayed.

and now,
when i run farther than i want to,
or breathe through the hurt,
i think of you.

not in some distant way.
you’re here.
you’re mine.
you’re the reason i don’t give up
even when it stings.

and maybe the idea is a little twisted,
but it reminds me that loving you
makes me stronger,
even if it hurts.

you’re in the sky,
and i’m still here,
counting clouds
and minutes
until you land safely,
until you message me back,
and feel, again,
like the world makes sense.

i poeticize too much.
a glance becomes a story,
a pause becomes a metaphor.
you say “hi”
and suddenly i’m writing about the way
your voice cuts through the noise in my chest.

i turn us into sonnets
before we’ve even lived the scene.
your hand brushes mine
and it’s a whole stanza
about skin and gravity
and how maybe the universe
meant for this moment to happen.

you say “i didn’t sleep much last night,”
and i think:
the moon must’ve been jealous
of how bright you were yesterday.
i poeticize.
because the truth,
as it stands,
feels too raw.
too terrifying.
too good.

so i cover it in metaphors
and rhyme it with prettier pain
until it sounds like a poem
instead of a prayer.
and maybe that’s my way
of saying
i love you.

not in a loud, bright way.
but in the margins of notebooks,
in lyrics i never share,
in every sentence i twist
just to feel closer to you.

i poeticize
because plain words
can’t hold you.
but maybe
poetry can.
maybe i can learn to, too.

poets in love don’t fall gently,
they crash like waves,
leave bruises in the softest places,
and call it poetry.

poets in love write instead of speak.
they send verses like lifelines,
hoping the other will read between
the heartbreak and the hope.

poets in love leave and return,
like seasons, like storms.
you still make it feel like a love story,
even when the ending feels close.

poets in love know too much, feel too much,
and somehow, still stay.
maybe it’s foolish. maybe it’s fate.
maybe it’s just us.

okay but my world still fell apart
so you didn’t help with that.
you didn’t stand
between me and the cliff,
you pushed me towards it.

you can’t say i quieted your voice
because that’s all i wanted to hear,
remember?
i didn’t say you held me back.
no, you held me here.
but no that’s okay.
maybe i’ll get over that one day.
i’ll just add it to the list.

is that only how you see me?
broken?
hurt?
fragile?
self destructive?
i mean,
you’re probably right.
but i do try to have more substance,
i try to do things
that make me happy,
even if it feels impossible.

and sure,
just impose your senseless ideologies
upon my vulnerable mind,
and then tell me they aren’t good
but don’t tell me how to fix them.
it’s not your fault though,
sorry.

maybe it doesn’t matter
how you see me anymore.
maybe it never did.
sorry,
these are just my rambling thoughts.
don’t take them to heart,
except for the ones you should.

i miss it.
the sting.
the ache.
the tiny rush of
doing something wrong
on purpose.
like i was in control.
like the hurt
was mine.

i know it’s ****** up.
but sometimes
i still want it.
not for attention.
not for drama.
just to feel
something
i understand.

a month ago
i thought of something
i wanted to tell you
while “the manuscript” played.

but it slipped away
before i could catch it.

today,
same song,
same road,
it came back.

i didn’t say it.
i just drove.