How can I feel like a stranger,
Only where my blood runs deep?
Maybe it’s because home feels like you,
Even though it could never be.
Some say I should be grateful,
I should be content—
Can’t I still long for more?
Kneeling, I pray for you.

Tangled in memories of open arms,
I used to melt into every embrace,
but now even a brush of skin
sends a shiver I can’t explain.

Once, touch felt like home,
a language spoken without words.
Now it lingers like an echo,
familiar yet distant, haunting me.

Underneath the discomfort,
there’s an ache I can’t name—
is it emptiness, is it longing,
or is it just him?

Clutching at air, at absence,
I tell myself I don’t need it,
but my body remembers
the last time I truly did.

Held for the last time,
three months and counting,
by the only arms that ever
felt like they wouldn’t let go.

Fingers trace the pages, hearts untold,  
Aching where the fiction burns her skin.  
Touches linger longer than they should,  
A spark too fierce to quiet deep within.  
Lust is not a whisper—it’s a scream.  

Yearning swells in every glance, unchecked,  
Every fleeting brush ignites the flame,  
And still, she drowns in all that she expects,  
Ravaged by a hunger with no name.  
Never his, yet bound by his embrace,  
In his arms, she burns and lets him take,  
Nothing quenches longing’s cruel embrace,  
Giving in to what she’ll never break.

You twist the truth, but I can read the signs,  
Each half-spun tale ignites a darker fire,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

You speak in riddles, dodging clear confines,  
Yet every name you bury fuels my ire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs.  

You think me blind, but darling, I divine  
The ghosts you hide—I know your every liar,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

I let it slide, my silence once benign,  
But venom drips from all that you conspire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs.  

I dream of ways to make your secrets mine,  
To watch you squirm beneath the tangled wire,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.  

Still, here I stay—though fury blurs the lines,  
Your pretty words are drowning in the mire,  
You twist the truth, but I can read the signs,  
And love decays beneath your thin designs.

You weave your words in careful, quiet guise,  
A name withheld, a story left unclear,  
Yet still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

You never speak the truth that meets my eyes,  
The gaps you leave are louder than you fear,  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise.  

Each hesitant confession I despise,  
Yet love still tethers me, though pain is near,  
And still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

I know the who, the what—your vague replies,  
You dance around the things I hate to hear,  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise.  

But if I call you out, the moment dies,  
I bite my tongue and swallow down the tear,  
And still, I hear the echo of your lies.  

One day, perhaps, the truth will meet my eyes,  
Or I will leave before it disappears—  
You weave your words in careful, quiet guise,  
Yet still, I hear the echo of your lies.

Do you feel the weight  
of my name when it flickers across your screen?  
Does it settle in your chest,  
a slow-burning ember,  
or is it just another name, another light,  
another moment you let pass?  

Do you feel the weight  
of hearing my name in a crowded room?  
Does it pull your thoughts toward me,  
the way yours does when I see it—  
buried in scripture,  
a name meant to mean something,  
a name I can’t read without thinking of you?  

Do you feel the weight  
of the hurt you’ve left behind?  
The nights I knew—  
but pretended not to.  
The times you whispered lies into my ear  
while holding someone else in the dark.  
Did you feel the weight  
when I did the same?  
Did it crush you like I hoped it would?  

Do you feel the weight  
when our fingers brush,  
when our eyes meet  
and neither of us dares to look away?  
Do you feel it tighten around your throat  
when you say my name,  
like it does for me?  
Or do you breathe easy,  
unburdened,  
untouched?  

Do you feel the weight  
of silence,  
of wanting to call,  
of wanting to tell me—  
everything, anything—  
but stopping yourself?  
You were always the first person I told,  
my safest place,  
but was I ever that for you?  

Do you feel the weight  
of knowing I would do anything,  
because I know you would too?  
If I say, please,
you listen.  
That has to mean something,  
doesn’t it?  

Do you feel the weight  
of knowing I can’t imagine anyone else?  
That I don’t believe in accidents,  
that I don’t believe you are just another boy
that I don’t believe you are not mine?  

Do you feel the weight  
the way I do?

A welcome warning,
Don't look at those who are mourning.
They'll **** your soul dry,
With their own want to die.

Through that, the track is a breeze.
Just follow my footsteps with ease.
Well, maybe not the stumbles.
We might take a few tumbles.

The circle of life rotates fast,
It's so easy to get stuck in the past.
Far ahead is the present,
To reach it would be pleasant.

Be careful not to overshoot,
The future will come to boot,
Worry into your system.
Ones like "I should have kissed him."

Let my words be a guide,
I won't be here for the long ride.
I figured it out too quick,
and now every second is a *****.

Thank you for the blessing of your presence.
I rarely get to indulge such essence.
Good luck traveling on.
At least I'll enjoy one last dawn.

Funny how tears fall sometimes—
uninvited, unexplained,
without any reason or rhyme.

Our minds, so overwhelmed with emotion,
as soon as we feel any sort of devotion,
any sort of desperation,
any sort of euphoria,
any sort of nostalgia.

Funny how we see crying
as only a representation of melancholy and misery,
when in truth, it encapsulates all the seasons—
from our sun-kissed days to the pale winter’s moon—
and makes us feel oh so much.
Makes us feel everything.
Makes us feel human.