Bric-a-brac high on a shelf, it might fall
On a floor with no carpet, might break and be gone.
It may slither, get lost, or be taken away;
Nevertheless, it just can't walk away.
It may gather dust, be moved, kept in hands, or removed
Somewhere else when the owner does not want to look.
Bric-a-brac is sometimes boring; it stands there so still,
Does not change by the hour its colors or kin.
It stays in one place with ease and a smile,
Happy to be someone's honor and pride.
It exists with no thoughts or dreams to become—
It is what it is, no less and no more.
After sunset, it is all the owner could want,
But by sunrise, sometimes they are gone all day long.
Bric-a-brac is still there; it's excited to be,
Unaware that the world might be cruel to it.
One day they could get used to it and throw it away,
Or resell for a penny, yet it's priceless, per se.
As for now, they admire its thinnest white skin:
It looks shiny afar, but too dull from within.
Bric-a-brac's just a vessel; it's hollow inside.
It contains what is gifted, spills back multiplied.
There are rainbows and lights if it's given some love,
Yet it is moved by an inch only once in a while.
It took ages to get in possession and own;
More time, too, has passed to trust in return.
Expected to be now a quiet trinket on a wall
Instead of a purpose: to be someone's all.

I’ve been okay lately.
Not perfect, but breathing.
The kind of healing where
you stop checking their profile,
but still hear their name in silence.

It’s not love anymore.
Not wanting them back.
Just… this quiet ache
that shows up
when the world slows down.

I miss the version of me
that existed when I thought
forever was real.
Not because of them,
but because I was softer.
Lighter.

Now, I walk steady.
I laugh without forcing it.
But some nights,
I still feel like junk left on the curb,
not because I still love them,
but because I remember what it felt like
to be someone’s home.

it rests in a box — unworn, untouched.
a pink medallion on a thread,
carefully guarded, like a best-kept secret.
the tale of a flame sparks a sudden wonder—
pillows, scents, a shy, sweet blunder.
i’m haunted again by a senseless memory
of wine-soaked evenings—pleasant, temporary.
we were never anything at all.
no debts to pay, no love to call.
and still, your trace remains in my mind.
a bond of secrets, the silent kind.
i could throw it into the river, set it free,
so i no longer feel its weight on me.
but part of me still leans into the ache.

there’s a necklace in my pocket.

I look across the street
at the woman walking by.

Her slender form
in bright reds dressed,
a beating crimson heart
against the exsanguinated grey
of dry asphalt.

I look across the street
and dare not move.

Because my mother
raised me undeserving
of the time of someone
whom bleeds life into
an exsanguinated day.

I look across the street
and nothing more.

As my father taught me
to live unremarkable
and let all songbids
fade away from memory...

I could not walk with her.

I lay here
on ashen asphalt
and wait for the red
to bleed out of sight.

I look across the street
and exsanguinate
any hope of lasting love.

the only reason that you
still love me,
is because you think that he
is still in there somewhere,
hidden deep.

you believe that he's still inside me,
banished and neglected,
in a dark corner,
windowless.

he won't escape, he doesn't remember how to.

scattered, lonely and forgotten,
he kneels down in the slums.

but he is still there.
voiceless, but
    I swear
you heard him

just now.

i think about you all the time
you always manage to cross my mind
in the dark
at school
with my mom
with bee
i see you everywhere
i am always reminded
you did not love me
you didnt really get to know me
and i know you will never see this
i know you wouldnt care
you thinking of me every now and then
is not reward
but entirely painful.

Remember you
I was Simon, an architect trying to find precious artifacts.
I found the crown,
The cause of all my frost,
The thing I thought would save me,
But it changed me.

Just as I was giving up hope, I found you,
The most precious artifact of them all.
My Marceline.
A little vampire girl,
Lost in her own ways,
In a world too unforgiving to let you in.

You were the only thing that made the days bearable.
I held onto you when everything else fell apart.
You were the reason I kept going.

But now I’m the Ice King, lost and scarred.
I try not to lose myself because I need to save you.
But who’s going to save me?

I found you in the wreckage of a war,
Just a scared little girl, lost and alone.
I was just a guy,
Scared and searching for my home.

Remember you.
We faked our laughter to ward off the fear.
Just the two of us, plus dear old Hambo who was always there,
Always together, a patchwork family of
Not one,
Not two,
But three.
Inseparable and together, side by side,
With broken smiles and hearts we tried to hide.

Like two pieces of a puzzle, we fought together
To stay alive.
But before I knew it, I had to leave.
You were gone from my life.

I see you as my daughter,
My sweet girl who saved me
More than I ever saved her.

The father you should’ve had, I couldn’t find.
We lived this ruin of a world together,
Until I could no longer ward off the evil that came with the cold.
Now the ice has frozen everything,
And I forget the man I was, the love I once brought.

Remember you.
Even through all the things I’ve forgotten,
For every moment that fades away,
Know that until I come back again,
My life will always be cold and sad.
I just wish it wasn’t like this.

I miss you, my Marcy girl.
Please forgive me
For whatever I do
When I don’t remember you.

You feel the saddest
at the far edge of the room,
where dim, weakening light fails to reach—

the corner where forgotten toys
from early childhood
live best in shadows.

In the cabinet, you find not skeletons,
but sleeves thick with dust,
worn only once to grieve.

Beneath them, a single shoelace—
from a past that never happened,
belonging to no one but you.

As you stand,
the floorboards sigh beneath your feet,
forgetting you too.

A picture of your mother,
stained and half-burned by the sun,
leans crooked on the wall.

She wears the same black scarf
from the last Christmas
you still remember.

You wear it too,
in hopes of returning some alacrity
that once bled this home.