After everything
didn’t you learn anything?

You were supposed
to be healing by now,
reflecting on the mistakes,
on the love you gave
that was never solid—
only wind.

It was not true,
even if you are certain it was.
It wasn’t, love.
It was emptiness,
a hunger for affection.

If you had stopped,
just for a moment,
to think about it,
you would have known too.

You shouldn’t be writing
about us,
about our love,
our undone plans.

You should be writing
about your traumas.

What is it to be a poet?
Oh, I wish that I knew,
how do I paint the sky in words?
Without calling it blue?

As a poet can see,
what is blind to many eyes.
How they see through the fog,
of a world full of lies.

Oh, to be a poet,
is a blessing in disguise.
How do I write my heart ?
When it's plotting my demise.

A poet's life, is a life filled with pain,
bearing a burden they can't explain,
so they sit alone and write a verse,
and wonder, if poetry is a curse.

Oh I wish to be a poet,
allow my heart to feel it's pain,
to use curse of poetry,
to mend my heart again.

You are not my daughter—
you are the daughter
of his late brother.

But everyone used to say
you looked like me,
that you could have easily
been mine.

And that was fine.
I called you princess,
because you are.

I don’t know
when you will realize this,
but the place you’re growing up in
is a hard one.

I won’t say I miss you,
but I wonder—
do you ever miss me?

Because in the few moments
we shared,
you clung to me,
you painted my face,
brushed my hair,
and for a while—
I became a princess
in your kingdom.

I hope the little time we had
was enough to show you
there is more to life.

Never stop dreaming, Nic.
You can go far.
All it takes
is believing.

There are days when the past
hits me like an uninvited guest,
its presence sharp, unwelcome.
Memories once soft and warm
now turn into needles,
pricking at the places I thought were healed.

I remember laughter that filled the air,
and the way we used to talk like time had no hold on us.
But now those moments feel foreign,
like ghosts drifting in a forgotten room.

The sting of a kiss that meant everything
now lingers like a wound that refuses to close.

I wish I could erase it all,
but even the hurt holds pieces of us
that I’m not ready to let go of.

Did you ever think of staying?
Or was leaving the only way
you knew how to love me?

Was I too much,
or not enough?
Did I ask for things
you couldn’t give,
or did you offer less
than you were able?

I wonder if you held back your truth
to protect me,
or to protect yourself
from watching me fall apart.

The answers don’t come.
But the questions—
they stay.
Lodged somewhere between
my ribs and my memory,
quiet,
persistent,
unanswered.

I could trace the days before you left,
Each one certain, unshaken —
Love blooming beneath our feet.
We built forever without fear.

But the day came like a storm
I never saw darkening the sky.
No warning, no shifting winds,
No fluttering leaves to alert me.

Your words were quiet, deliberate,
Like you’d rehearsed them in the mirror.
You said it was what you needed to do,
A choice for your family — not for us.

But clarity can still wound.
Even understanding doesn’t soften the impact.
And now the air is heavy
With all I didn’t see coming.