The sun still rose—did you know that?
A dull, indifferent thing,
spilling light over hollow places
that once held your shadow.

They found your coat on the chair,
your shoes by the door,
as if you meant to return.

The air was thick with silence,
the kind that hums in empty rooms,
pressing against the walls
where your voice used to be.

Someone called your name by accident.
Someone set a place at the table.
Someone swore they heard your footsteps
on the stairs.

And I—
I watched the world keep spinning,
watched birds lift into the sky
as if nothing had been lost,
as if the earth had not swallowed
a universe.

The ice will melt, the seas will rise,
The fires will spread beneath the skies,
The ice will melt, the seas will rise,
And swallow what’s left of our goodbyes.

The bombs will fall, the war drums beat,
The hunger roams the crowded streets,
The bombs will fall, the war drums beat,
And scatter all we thought was sweet.

The air is thick, the forests burn,
The soil will crack and never turn,
The air is thick, the forests burn,
And no one’s left to mourn or learn.

The leaders fight, the nations break,
The lies they spread, the lives they take,
The leaders fight, the nations break,
And no one cares for freedom’s sake.

The waves will crash, the crops will die,
The children’s cries are lost in the sky,
The waves will crash, the crops will die,
And no one asks the reasons why.

The guns will roar, the blood will spill,
The streets will echo with the chill,
The guns will roar, the blood will spill,
And hope will vanish, stark and still.

The earth will crack, the heavens fall,
The cities crumble, one and all,
The earth will crack, the heavens fall,
And no one hears the final call.

The news will spin, the lies will spread,
The digital wars will fill with dread,
The news will spin, the lies will spread,
And truth is lost, our minds misled.

The voices scream, the tears will flow,
As we unravel, slow and low,
The voices scream, the tears will flow,
And the world ends with no one to know.

The missiles launch, the skies ablaze,
The tyrants rise, we fall to gaze,
The missiles launch, the skies ablaze,
As borders close and hope decays.

The blood will spill, the bodies burn,
The genocides, they never turn,
The blood will spill, the bodies burn,
As refugees with nowhere yearn.

The lies are loud, the truths erased,
The leaders’ words, a hollow face,
The lies are loud, the truths erased,
As corruption eats at every place.

The oceans choke, the skies turn black,
The polar ice will never track,
The oceans choke, the skies turn black,
And ecosystems fall off track.

The forests die, the insects fade,
The rivers dry, no hope is laid,
The forests die, the insects fade,
And nature’s toll is fully paid.

The banks collapse, the debts will rise,
The homeless roam with vacant eyes,
The banks collapse, the debts will rise,
As wealth divides beneath the lies.

The shelves are bare, the crops will fail,
The markets crash, the ships turn pale,
The shelves are bare, the crops will fail,
And hunger spreads beneath the wail.

The shots ring out, the streets are torn,
The bloodied cries, the youth are worn,
The shots ring out, the streets are torn,
And hatred thrives where love was sworn.

The children starve, the women weep,
The suffering’s vast, too deep to keep,
The children starve, the women weep,
As death is sold and souls to reap.

The screens will flash, the truth’s erased,
The mind’s enslaved, the soul misplaced,
The screens will flash, the truth’s erased,
And privacy’s a stolen grace.

The codes will break, the AI reigns,
The jobs are lost, the fear remains,
The codes will break, the AI reigns,
And human hands are bound in chains.

The idols rise, the people fall,
The souls are lost in empty thrall,
The idols rise, the people fall,
As substance dies and skins appall.

The hearts are numb, the minds are cold,
The stories fade, the truths are sold,
The hearts are numb, the minds are cold,
And vanity is bought, not gold.

The churches burn, the temples fall,
The faith is lost, no prayer to call,
The churches burn, the temples fall,
As lies are sold beneath the pall.

The cults arise, the masses sway,
And faith is twisted, led astray,
The cults arise, the masses sway,
As reason fades and faith decays.

The plagues will rise, the sickness spreads,
The bodies fall, the doctor dreads,
The plagues will rise, the sickness spreads,
And medicine’s a ghost instead.

The children’s cries, the wounds will fester,
The cures are gone, the doctors’ muster,
The children’s cries, the wounds will fester,
As life is snatched by every bluster.

The skies are dark, the hearts are still,
The hopelessness, an endless hill,
The skies are dark, the hearts are still,
And time slips past against our will.

The fear will grow, the shadows long,
The meaning lost, the world is wrong,
The fear will grow, the shadows long,
And we are left to weep our song.

A dandelion’s wish floats in the breeze,
Dancing through sunlight and soft summer air,
Whispering tales of the places it’ll be,
Carried by winds that wander with care.

Upon a breath, it twirls in the light,
Sailing ‘bove meadows, o’er mountains so wide,
A fragile traveler in the still of the night,
Dreaming of lands where its dreams may reside.

It sways with the rhythm of skies so vast,
A tiny spark in the world’s grand design,
Ever fleeting, it drifts from the past,
Seeking a future where roots can entwine.

A moment it lingers, a sigh in the air,
Then onward it sails, with no time to stay,
Lost in the journey, in a whisper so fair,
The seed in the wind, forever astray.

The sun barely rises,
casting a soft glow across the table,
the air thick with the scent of syrup,
a warm, comforting embrace.
On my plate, the pancakes—
fluffy, golden stacks,
like little clouds kissed by the earth,
drizzled with dark, rich chocolate,
a bittersweet sweetness
clinging to the edges like memories.
Whipped cream swirls like soft cotton,
cascading in graceful heaps,
while strawberries, red as a fleeting sunset,
sit nestled atop like the last bloom
before winter’s breath.

A sip of hot chocolate,
dark and creamy,
curling steam rising like the breath of life,
whipped cream crowned with syrup,
a spoonful of warmth
that holds the promise of comfort,
a taste of home in every drop.

Each bite is a surrender,
the world softening,
blurring, fading with every chew.
The sweetness, the richness,
mingling with the faintest hint of finality—
my last meal, my last taste
of earth’s tender gifts.

As I eat, I watch the room,
the last sunrise casting long shadows,
its golden light touching things
that once held so much meaning—
a chair, a book, a photograph.
And I wonder if this moment,
this simple breakfast,
will be the last I ever know,
and if it’s enough
to carry me through
the final breath.

She stands at the edge of the grove,
barefoot in the soft, damp earth.
The sky has darkened, an ink-stained veil,
and the air is heavy with whispers
of things not yet spoken.

He steps from the shadows,
the pomegranate cradled in his hand,
as if it were a heart still beating.
Its skin glints like polished blood,
each curve a promise she does not understand.

He smiles—not with his mouth, but his eyes,
the kind of smile that unravels secrets.
He holds out the fruit, the distance between them
as thin as a thread pulled taut.
“Try it,” he says. “It’s sweet as summer rain.”

She hesitates, her fingers trembling
above its smooth, red skin,
caught between the impulse to reach,
to know, to taste—and the warning,
some echo of a voice she barely remembers.

“Just a taste,” he breathes,
and his voice is the rustle of leaves,
the call of something deeper than words.
She presses her thumb into the fruit,
and it yields, a dark, red river
running down her wrist.

He watches as she lifts the seeds
to her mouth, her lips stained
in a shade she’s never worn before.
The burst of juice, sharp and sweet,
washes over her tongue—a flood, a fever.

And she feels it then, the shift—
the earth beneath her is no longer soft,
but hard and cold, like stone.
The taste of the pomegranate lingers,
the sweetness turning to ash,
something bitter lodged in her throat.

He steps closer, his hand on her cheek,
a gesture almost tender.
“You wanted this,” he says,
and she knows he’s right, though she cannot say why.

The grove is silent, the night deepening,
the stars like distant eyes watching.
She looks at him, and then at the empty husk
in her hand, the seeds scattered at her feet
like drops of blood on snow.

She does not speak.
There is nothing left to say.
Only the taste, the lingering memory
of sweetness, and the slow, heavy beat
of something lost.

I was shaped by a quiet ache,
a hollow that stretches with each breath,
a yearning seeded long before I had words
to name it.

There’s a pulse beneath my skin,
a slow, relentless rhythm,
like waves reaching for a shore
they’ve never touched.
It stirs at dusk,
when shadows lengthen
and the world slips into silence.

I’ve felt it, the flicker of something distant,
a glow like a match struck in darkness,
faint but alive,
a promise of warmth
in the chill of an empty room.

I dream of a place I’ve never seen,
its edges blurred, fading as I reach—
a moment that hovers, suspended
just beyond waking.
There’s a voice there,
not mine but familiar,
whispering of things yet to come,
of an end to the waiting.

The night is long and still,
its weight presses down on me,
a shroud that I wear
even in daylight.
I move through it, restless,
my hands outstretched,
searching for something
to fill the space inside.

I was born with this thirst,
a quiet, endless pull
toward the unknown,
like a moth drawn to a light
it can never hold.

And so I wander,
eyes fixed on the horizon,
chasing the faint glow that flares
only when the dark surrounds me.
I linger at the edge,
listening for a call
that I have waited lifetimes to hear.

The emptiness remains,
a companion, an old friend,
its hunger a reminder
of all the things I have yet to find.
I carry it with me, this quiet thirst,
unsated, unanswered,
as the dawn creeps in
and the world stirs to life.

A hand stretched out, a whispered word,
A kindness given, barely heard.
A smile that blooms, a heart that sways,
A single spark to light the way.

No gift too small, no act too slight,
To turn the dark into the light.
For kindness flows like rivers wide,
A touch, a hope, a love untied.

A thread of warmth, a simple start,
Can mend a soul, can heal a heart.
The ripples spread beyond our view,
A kindness given, one made new.

No one noticed when we slipped beneath the tide,
our bodies weightless, swaying slow,
the world above a distant hush—
only the hush, only the glow.

Seahorses curl like secrets in the deep,
golden spines bending with the waves,
we let the water braid our hands,
a quiet promise, softly saved.

The current hums a lullaby,
your voice dissolves into the blue,
I turn to you, you turn away—
what else is there for us to do?

No one noticed when the sky let go,
when salt became the air we breathed,
the ocean held us, gentle ghosts—
and never asked if we would leave.

Beneath the hush of silver rain,
a seed waits in the dark—
not for lack of light,
but in honor of time.

The river does not rush the stone,
nor the moon beg the sun for dawn.
Even stars take centuries
to whisper their names in light.

Patience is the hush in the hallway
before the door opens,
the breath before the answer,
the ache before the bloom.

Learn from the tree—
how it bears the weight of seasons
without breaking.
How it drinks storms and silence
without complaint.

You are becoming.
Not in bursts,
but in slow, sacred folds
of being.

Let the days pass.
Let the sky spin.
You are not late—
you are rooting.

I laid my hands upon the altar,
knuckles bruised from silent prayers,
whispers turned to fleeting echoes,
lost among the empty air.

I built you bridges out of marrow,
stitched the stars into your sky,
gave you light when nights were hollow,
yet you never asked me why.

My name fades in nameless hours,
scattered like the autumn leaves,
a monument of quiet labor
built for those who never grieve.

And still, I stand, arms outstretched,
woven from the threads of care.
The world moves on—I disappear,
a ghost who gave, yet none were there.

The water rises, slow but sure,
it takes my breath, it grips my skin.
I reach for land, a saving shore,
but waves pull tight and drag me in.

My voice is small, a hollow sound,
it breaks like glass, it fades like mist.
No hands extend, no rope comes down,
the world moves on—I don’t exist.

I see the sky but can’t touch light,
I dream of wings but feel the chain.
And so I sink, and so I stay,
a body drowned beneath the rain.

I feel so unreal,
a shadow slipping through the cracks.
Reality is humbling—
it bends, it breaks, it shifts like glass.

What is reality
but echoes in an empty hall?
Are you sure you’re even real—
or just a dream that learned to crawl?

I’ll keep on telling you that I love you—
soft as dust on lace,
a whisper tucked in velvet drawers,
a melody wound into time
by trembling hands and silver keys.

Like the ballerina turning in her little glass world,
I’ll spin my love in slow circles,
over and over—
even when the tune grows thin,
even when the gears grow tired.

When the cogs in my mind lose their rhythm,
when the clockwork in my chest falters,
when my fingers no longer reach to hold you—
still, somewhere beneath the hush,
my heart will echo its worn refrain:
“I love you, I love you…”

Until the spindle stops,
until the lid closes gently,
and all that’s left
is the scent of old music,
the silence that remembers
the song we once knew.

I’m tired of being your porcelain ache,
a honeyed bruise you press just to feel
like something breaks.

The moon wore my name last night—
called me “sugar,”
then swallowed me whole.

I am not a whisper.
I’m smoke in your lungs,
a hunger that licks the edges
of your quietest shame.

You come to me
with wrists full of apologies,
but I’m not your silk confession
anymore.

I’ve traded my softness for salt—
kissed the mirror
until it tasted like metal.
I shed my skin in the hallway light
and watched it slip into lace.

You called it love.
I called it
forgetting myself slowly.

Now,
I wear thunder on my thighs.
My spine hums with velvet rage.
I am not your waiting room.

If I bloom again,
it will be for me.
If I beg,
it will be my name
I whisper back to the dark.

a story unwritten, a verse left untold,
a heart still beating, but always cold.

Your hand in mine, a fragile weight,
a thread unraveled, pulled too thin.
The clock still moves, the seasons change,
but time won’t weave you back again.

I speak your name, the air stands still,
as if it dares not let you go.
But silence hums a bitter truth—
some echoes fade, some rivers flow.

So take this breath, this fleeting glance,
before you slip into the past.
For love remains, though you depart,
a haunting ache that’s meant to last.

From M in Mavis to M in Mary,
from J in Johnny to J in Jason,
we echo them—
in footsteps,
in laughter,
in love.

He walks like him—
that same happy-go-lucky lean,
arms wide open to the world,
as if the universe could never be too much.
And I—
I tilt my head at wonder,
curious eyes always chasing stardust,
just like her.

A monster and a human.
But who’s to say which is which?

I’m the one wrapped in shadows,
painted in black lace and quiet storms,
flawed and flickering,
misunderstood in daylight,
but never by him.

He is sunshine in a flannel shirt,
a golden retriever heart
in a world that can be so cold.
He loves loud, laughs louder,
and listens like it’s the only thing that matters.

Jason,
just like Johnny,
sees me—not just the sharp eyeliner,
not just the quiet or the questions—
but the heartbeat beneath it all.

And I, like Mavis,
melt at the simple things—
his awe of life,
his open hands,
his endless yes.

We’re not meant to fit,
but we do—
like a puzzle where the edges don’t match,
but the image is perfect
when you step back.

Love like this…
it Zings.

It bridges what the world says shouldn’t be bridged.
It silences the noise of “shouldn’t” and “can’t.”
It sings in the language of
acceptance,
curiosity,
compassion,
and the wild kind of devotion
that only monsters and humans
who truly see each other
could ever know.

Jason and Mary.
Johnny and Mavis.
A Zing that’s ours.

the day I lose feeling
will not come softly.

it will arrive in a hush—
not a peaceful one,
but the kind that devours echoes
and drapes the bones in frost.

I will no longer know the sting
of sunburned sorrow,
nor the hush of a warm hand
brushing the tears off my cheek.

no more trembling
under a thunder-skied guilt,
no more gasping at poems
that bleed with someone else’s grief—
I will be blank.

a shell left in the wake of a tide,
where even the salt forgets
the memory of waves.

how cruel,
to be untouched by ache or awe.
to no longer cry
at the sight of spilled light
on cold pavement at dusk—
to not care
how a crow calls at dusk
with a voice like cracked obsidian.

when I can no longer feel,
do not call it numb.
call it death.
call it
gone.

and when you find my name
beneath dust
in a book no one reads anymore,
know that once,
I was fire.
and it took the whole night sky
to put me out.

the trees hum in slow green syllables,
and the wind—
soft as breath against sleeping skin—
slips between the spaces we leave open.

cloudlight spills across your shoulders,
a whisper of morning in hues of mist and mint,
and somewhere, the world forgets its weight.

a petal trembles
on the surface of the pond—
not sinking, not floating,
just… waiting.

you don’t speak.
you don’t have to.
the silence fits
like moss in the shape of your name.

everything softens:
the hours, the outlines,
the ache you thought would stay forever.

here,
time is water.
you are the shore.

They flicker—
petals plucked from unseen gardens,
their colors bleeding into the hush of the sky.

A whisper of lilac, of crushed gold,
of rain-drenched sapphire,
they spiral like forgotten prayers.

Underneath the aching hush of dusk,
the butterfly’s wings
shimmer like glass about to break—
fragile, too fragile,
as if beauty was never meant to last.

Mist hums in the hollow between trees.
The meadow, once a cradle of light,
now wilts into sighs,
its perfume dampened with grief.

And still they rise,
a shiver of soft rebellion,
a trembling hymn against the dimming world.

Each beat of wing,
a memory unmade,
a soft ache threading through twilight veins,
leaving ghost-lit trails
in the evening’s failing breath.

Perhaps this is how paradise fades—
not with fire,
but with the slow, silver drowning
of wings too heavy with dreams.

Beneath a sky of quiet blue,
I feel the breeze and think of you—
It whispers softly through the pine,
Just like your fingers brush with mine.

The sunlight warms my face and skin,
But nothing warms me like your grin.
Even the river hums your tune,
A steady rhythm, sweet and true.

The wildflowers bloom along my way,
And every petal seems to say
That love like yours is rare and deep—
A kind of joy I’ll always keep.

I hear the robins sing your name,
I see you in the morning flame—
The way the dawn begins to rise
Feels just like looking in your eyes.

In every tree, in every breeze,
In every hush between the leaves,
I find you there, in quiet grace—
A feeling I could never replace.

No matter how the seasons turn,
No matter what the skies may churn—
You are the calm inside my storm,
The hand that always keeps me warm.

And in the garden of my soul,
You’ve made a home, you’ve made me whole.

When the night wraps around you like wet wool,
and your thoughts begin to ache like tired feet—
know this:

I am the light left on in your window,
the quiet hum in the next room,
the soft chair waiting with open arms.

If the sky cracks
and pours its weight upon your shoulders,
I’ll be your umbrella—
no, your stormcoat—
no, the sunrise chasing away every bruise of cloud.

When the world grows too loud
and every breath feels barbed,
I’ll be the hush in a field of lavender,
the hush that understands without asking
why your hands shake
or your voice folds in on itself.

You do not need to carry every fire alone.
Let me be your match,
your kindling,
your hearth.
Even the strongest trees lean sometimes.

So if you fall—
whether into silence, shadow, or sleep—
I will not let you hit the ground alone.
I’ll be the earth beneath your fall,
the moss that remembers your shape,
the roots that hold your name
and do not let go.

You don’t have to ask.
I am already on my way.