There is a greed inside of me  
an apparition that feeds on pity—  
a desperation that would so casually consign you  
to the same misery  
just so I would not be alone.  

A selfishness that would entwine a piece of me  
so tightly along your threads  
that I could never be unstitched  
from the seams of your patchwork,  
knowing that I could never relieve you of that burden,  
never be more than an incessant itch beneath your soul.  

Because in the quiet, in the dark, I sink  
into the horrible truth, like I am  
swallowed up with the light-  
I will always love you,  
but never love you again.

Because in the quiet of the dark, I sink  
into the horrible truth, like I am  
swallowed up with the light-  
I will always love you,  
but never love you again.  

This unbearable knot,  
assuaged only by the vilest condolences—  
the thought that somewhere,  
you are being swallowed up too.

A sixth sense for cruelty,  
Like you could smell the paper-thin scent of recovery-  
Waiting for me to stand at the world's edge  
Let the tide slide over my toes  
And imagine myself becoming whole  

Cruel - like it was gifted by the gods  
Like you could sense the feeble first-steps of recovery-  
Waiting for me to stand at the world's edge  
Let the tide slide over my toes  
And imagine myself becoming whole  

You look at me like a Greek myth  
Full of serpent-stone, sirens and Aphrodite  
Remind me how easily you twist me  
Around your wicked finger  
Stake me down in your palm like a sacrifice  

Maligned and mangled at the foot of Olympus  
The spent offering, the naive fool-  
I'll stitch myself together in a practiced ritual,  
And wait for you to shatter me  
On your altar again

The board lies still—eight ranks, eight files,
Each square a world, a thousand trials.
Its checkered face, both calm and cruel,
Waits quietly to play the fool.

The stage is set, the players stare,
Each move a hope, each glance a dare.
They chase the crown, a fleeting throne,
Yet play this game so not alone.

The pawns march on with hearts held tight,
Blind to edges of wrong and right.
The knights vault over doubts and ties,
Twisting through paths that mask disguise.

While bishops slide through shades between,
They blur the line of right and mean.
The rooks stand firm with rigid pride,
Their paths cut sharp, no step to slide.

The queen—so fierce, so fast, so grand—
Wields power none can understand.
The king just shuffles, slow and small,
Yet all would die to guard his fall.

But none ask why this prize they seek—
What worth has power if souls grow weak?
They fight for check, they fall for mate,
They crown the skill, yet praise the fate.

But when the game has run its thread,
All lie the same—still, cold, and dead.
No victor’s cheer, no mournful cries,
Just silent echoes, fading skies.

A silent watcher beyond the frame,
Eyes steady, untouched by fleeting game.
He watches rules with endless flight,
The fragile dance of truth and lies.

Unmoved by moves both thrill and blind,
He holds the truth the young can’t find—
That all their struggle, all their pain,
Is but a shadow, not the reign.

just a casual crush
somehow joined my crushed heart
she gave life to the poet inside me
whom I never would know if I hadn’t met her
she was like stars in the night sky
which brings comfort to distant observer
when I witnessed her heavenly presence
it was like the blind seeing, feeling light
the most beautiful flowers envied her beauty
she was as complex as a eels birth
that is what I liked about her!
Only her closest ones know about her
I tried my luck
unlike the scientists I had some success
success which gave and took everything simultaneously
I found a picture of her birthday
the first pic of her adorned in a red dress
glowing brighter than the ruby on her neck
the next picture was of her boyfriend
tall, long hairs and success all over him
next with their lips locked
which unlocked my mind into reality
just a casual crush or so I thought
somehow has crushed my heart harder

I've noticed the older I get,
I worry less about my mortality
and more about the quality of my memory.
But then I had an epiphany:
maybe we weren't meant to have a good memory. Consider this: by your 30th birthday, you will have been alive for 10 thousand days. Would you want to remember it all?
Maybe it's OK that we can't remember.
Maybe it's OK if we forget.
Maybe it's not a reflection of your intelligence
if you can't recall the names and faces
of everyone you've ever met.
That's not to say memory loss isn't scary.
But if there's one thing you can hold on to:
even if you forget,
someone will remember for you.

Are we cosmic—
Or chaos in disguise?
Our love burned bright,
Yet so does my sorrow—
Like the stars,
Still shining
Long after
They’ve died.

What is grief,  
if not love  
wandering in search of a home?

It lingers in hollow spaces,  
quiet corners of empty rooms,  
whispering to walls  
that no longer echo back.

Grief is love without a pulse—  
a heartbeat still waiting for an answer,  
a name spoken into silence,  
hoping for an echo  
that will never come.

But still,  
I need it to become something.  
To sprout wings  
or take root in the soil—  
to turn into something I can hold:  
a garden,  
a letter,  
a breath.  
Something to name the weight.

Grief is love unbound—  
it spills,  
it seeps,  
it finds the cracks in days and nights,  
asking, always asking:  
Where now?

And yet—  
grief moves.  
It carries yesterday’s tenderness  
into tomorrow’s hands,  
grows roots in memory,  
builds altars from the ache,  
finds its place  
in every sunrise,  
every tear  
that softens the ground.

Grief is love  
that will not rest,  
will not relent.

But one day, I believe—  
it will bloom.