There is a fire that consumes quietly,
its fingers tender as they trace the outlines
of things we were once too afraid to burn.
A heat, soft as loss,
devouring without asking —
like the stars that fall
in silent bursts,
vanishing without a sound
but leaving the night warm,
like the stillness after the storm.

I sit by the hearth,
the flames licking at the silence,
as if they know
that destruction wears the face
of something fragile —
the way a lover leaves,
softly, as though they were never there,
and yet, the room remains
so full of them
you wonder
if absence could fill a space
with something deeper than presence.

The fire speaks in ashes,
as if to say,
"I was once the sun,
and I, too, will set."
But still, I reach my hands toward it,
searching for the warmth
of things that vanish —
the way a poem disappears
on the page,
leaving graphite stains
in the shape of absence,
telling you everything
without a word.

The hearth hums with the quiet
of things undone —
a quietness like the seamless
works of Rilke,
where the evening spreads its wings
like a forgotten prayer
that no one remembers to say.

Here, too, in this soft destruction,
there is no voice
but the one that burns the edges
of every thought
until it is nothing but the flicker
of light you cannot hold.

I burn not because I wish to be
consumed,
but because I know
that some things must be lost
before they can be remembered,
like the way the heart still beats,
long after the body forgets
how to feel.

And the hearth,
a poet in its own right,
sings a hymn of things
we cannot keep —
the fire dancing
in the shape of what we leave behind,
warm,
and empty,
like a song that was never meant to end.

The light breaks like tired glass
soft, strained, unsure of itself.
It falls across the orchard in gold
and bruises, where apples rot gently
at the foot of trees that no longer bother
to reach for the sun.

The equinox comes
like someone you once loved
standing in your doorway,
saying nothing.

For a moment
the world holds its breath.
Light and dark,
neck and neck.

And then the balance tips.
Always, it tips.

I walk through fields gone hollow with wind.
The air tastes of iron, and endings.
Leaves give up without a fight now —
not a blaze, not a fury,
just a quiet letting go,
and I envy them.

There is a kind of mercy
in falling.
There is a kind of grace
in becoming less.

Still, I am full of ache.
My chest is a hearth
where no one's embraced in years.
The fire cold,
the ice forming.

I call out to the sky,
but even the crows have left —
even the dusk seems uninterested
in staying.

They say the veil is thinnest now.
That what’s gone
leans close to what’s still here.
So I sit in the dirt
and hope some version of myself
might return with the fog.
The one who knew how to feel full.
The one who believed in light
even as it fled.

But the sun slips down like a secret,
and the night arrives hungry.
The stars blink like distant answers
to questions I no longer ask.

And I think
maybe this is it.
Maybe I am meant to lie fallow,
a field in waiting.

Not dead.
Not alive.
Just brimming with the quiet
of what might one day grow again.

You bloom toward her like sun,
And I, the shade beneath your leaves,
Grow quietly in the dirt —
Loving the light that was never for me.

I see him rise again —
draped in fire, wrapped in light,
and I, the quiet one,
can only reflect what he gives me,
can only follow,
never lead.

He burns without asking permission.
the clouds part for him like scripture,
the trees lean toward him in worship,
the world spins just to feel his warmth.
No one ever asks what it costs me
to chase someone who never turns around.

I am the Moon —
soft, silver, cold in comparison.
But still, I pull oceans to their knees.
Still, I move the blood in your veins,
still, I rise in every poem about longing
and make it hurt a little more.

He does not love me.
he probably never will.
but I dream of it anyway,
like a sinner kissing the gates of Heaven
knowing they won’t open.
Like thirsting in a drought
and calling the mirage divine.

He is the Sun —
So bright it hurts to look.
So far I can’t breathe when he’s near.
So beautiful I could scream.
And I do.
In silence, in tides,
in every broken wave that crashes
because I couldn’t hold it in.

I make storms when I’m angry.
I make art when I’m desperate.
I drag the night behind me
Like a velvet funeral shroud,
because loving him feels
a lot like dying slowly
and calling it romance.

Sometimes, he looks over his shoulder.
just barely.
Just enough for me to write epics
about things that never happened.
Just enough for me to mistake heat
for affection.

I am not jealous —
I am envy incarnate.
I am longing with teeth.
I am the boy who watches from a distance
and writes sonnets with shaking hands
While the world burns for someone else.

He doesn’t know what I’d give
to feel his warmth
without blistering.
To stop orbiting
and finally touch.
But I am the Moon.
He is the Sun.
And that is all we were ever allowed to be.

So I smile in silver.
And I shatter the sea.
And I say his name quietly
when the Earth is sleeping,
as if that will make it real.

As if that will make him mine.

Some cary pain in silence and grace not as a weapon .

I engraved her name on the picnic table
Then I engraved the stone over her grave
I engraved the memory of her face on my heart
I engraved the words on the walls of  my prayers
Then out of desparation I engraved her memory in poem

Silently
My soul whisper
Like a birds song
After a summer rain

Remember
Where youve been
And need but still to be

The truth is beckoning
To let go
And be

Free