I used to build words
like a carpenter—
lines hammered out
plank by plank
word for word,
like bridges
spanning waters
for anyone
eager to cross.

And now
I write to meet the page
like aching skin,
like quiet water
hesitant to ripple—
careful to bear a mark.

All the words
I’ve sent off—
paper boats,
adrift.

I let them all go,
travelers,
and bridges alike,
let them sink or rise—
and let the tide
bring the words
home.

One wrong turn—
no worse than any other—
but this one
this particular slip
stuck its foot out
caught you sideways
and the ground
now refuses
to forgive—
or you lead yourself
to believe
you are to blame.

We'd like the world
to balance
but sometimes
it tilts—
and we drink down
the bitter
without ever
spilling the sweet.

It’s okay—
because patience
is no accident.

Part 1
Moored to Your Fate

You never thought it would be her—
the one who once traced your hairline
with lullabies,
who held your hand across the street,
who held up your name,
like a promise that the world would
never break you—Hope.

But sometimes—love wears a cruel mouth,
fingers that once soothed now shove you under —
you learn to swallow the tide,
to keep quiet when her rage bleeds
her voice upon you—Hope.

Part 2
The Haunting Storms

And when you run away to find shelter,
the storms do not ask if you are ready.
They do not care if your ragged bones
are already cracked.
If your heart, heavy as a stone,
has already been tossed away into
deep, dark water.

Still, they sink and you drown, they
sink and you drown—you hate it—
hating who you’ve become—sunken,
cursing your name—Hope.

Part 3
Unmoored

One day,
you wake to a  perfect calm—
not sure how you got here,
only that the air is crisp,
with daylight most forgiving.

Beside you,
a younger version of yourself,
small fingers tracing your hairline,
as if mapping a way back.
She grabs and hugs you,
pushing her tiny nose into your neck.
She kisses your cheek and whispers in
your heart—thank you.

Thank you for not giving up.
Thank you for holding up my
name to your heart,
like a promise that the world would
never break us.

Thank you—for becoming the oar,
the mast, the unsinkable hull
that does not break—having me safe
as your stowaway.

Thank you—learning to row
with bleeding hands,
to steer by the stars no matter what—
the punishing rain blinding you,
and the wind lashing at your face.

Thank you for taking my hand and
carrying me across the oceans.

The sky splits wide with light,
a flood of emotion makes you both fall
to your knees.
The brightest shore fills you up
like a slow hymn, and you—
breathless—
standing grateful
in this perfectly made morning—
a day to remember—Hope.

Sorry is a door
you step through,
barefoot and
open-handed,
every time
you think
you must fix something
that was meant to break.

Sorry is a door,
soft as cloud,
hard as regret,
it swings
no matter how many times
you slam it shut.

You keep—
believing,
knocking,
and walking through.

As if the other side
will be different this time.
As if love
waits with open arms
instead of crossed fingers.


The truth is—
sorry is the door
you take over and over again
until you understand
you never
wanted to be on the other side
to begin with.

Sorry is the door
to the wrong house.

There is something quiet
in the way
the flowers bloom
against the gray,
among abandoned doorways
and forgotten walls,
as if they belong there—
their softness brushes
against decay,
like a secret
they aren’t trying to keep.

You stand still,
and time slows.
Nothing moves but a subtle drift,
nothing speaks
but the quiet cascade of petals—
growing where they shouldn’t,
thriving where the world
has grown tired.

It’s almost enough
to make you believe
in something—
a small kind of hope
that hides itself
in unexpected places,
waiting to be noticed.

Wood splinters,
as doors slam—
Someone always ends up leaving.

Down the hall,
voices rise, then settle—
we were taught not to talk to strangers,
even the ones who once loved us.

Love is a blanket,
too short to cover our feet—
stretched too thin,
it always tears us.

A house can break in small ways—
first in the sharp cut of words,
then, in silence,
until even the walls stop asking for us.

In the end—
there is nothing left
but the frame of a doorway,
a threshold where no one waits—
just air shifting,
and a ghost stepping through.

My heart trips
on its own beat—
a clumsy thing
my little red fighting machine
stepping where it shouldn't
falling where it swore
it wouldn't—
silly heart with two left feet

It moves in crazy fits
in starts
too eager
too uncertain—
a tiny dancer with a desire
to count
to a tiny infinity

Love taps twice
but it falters—
always leading
where it should follow
always missing
the note
by just one step—
but dance with me
lovely girl
with two left socks
in your feet

I walked the shoreline,
barefoot
against the wind—
the sand,
stinging my face.

The tide held its silence,
better at keeping time
than keeping promises—
softer than salt air,
gentle as a smile,
gone and forgotten.

Loneliness
fell short,
a sigh,
a soft retreat—
leaving only the faint warmth
of footprints
fading behind me.

You came in fast,
like summer in April—
all swagger on borrowed time,
a heat that I couldn’t survive—
I should have known better
than to touch.

Your hands—
a bonfire across my skin,
your voice—a quiet guise
before the strike
of a match.

There are forces around us
we should not take casually—
magnetism, gravity,
the stretch toward something
that pulls in and begs
to be followed—
ironically, literally
I was no match for you.

You are made
of something primal—
untamed, unapologetic,
and in the end,
it was never a fair contest.
You, fire. I, thin air—
rushing to meet you,
after knowing full well
what fire does to air.

She holds her children
as if she could keep them forever
as if her arms could become
a wall against time
drawing the world smaller
into her universe of warmth.

Fingers trace small backs
pressing hope into tender spines—
their touch speaks louder
than any prayer.

This is how she endures—
a calm sentinel
watching the winds rise
gathering her own
against the open maw
of the world
drawing them closer
into her silence
to remind them
they are safe.

She planted small hopes
in the cracks of a dying world—
timid sprouts, fragile but defiant,
pushing through the ash.

Even as the sky forgets the sun,
her dirt-scored hands
remember the language of survival.
A faint stir rises within the earth—
roots quivering beneath barren soil,
aching for water's warm touch.

The air hangs thick,
against the cold truths
of metal machines—
her ears strain for warmth,
her hands sink into the ground,
seeking a quiet song.

The soil clings—ancient, enduring,
unbroken by decay.
She kneels, and in that moment,
the dirt softens beneath her—
It cradles her hope,
a green breath
in a place the sky forgot.

And still, she moves,
as if her breath
might wake the heavens—
as if the softness of her hope
could dispel the dark.

A beginning
A breath
A step
A want
A reach
A fall
A sigh
A was
...

This city
was not built
for people like me—
I am the space
between the buildings,
a line
in the pavement
that no one stops to notice.
My memory is the sky—
storms tearing through
like the way we need
to index clouds.

I am
blurred lines—
a smudge
born of gridlock,
but going unnoticed
is a weapon.

No fingerprints
to leave behind—
just a ghost
hidden beneath my skin,
too blurred to see,
too drab to notice.

What does it mean
to walk the city
and leave no trace—
to peel open my eyelids
only to find nothing.

Sometimes, I wonder—
if invisibility is a disease,
born from a system so loud
it swallows everything.

The sky is crimson rain—
she curls into herself,
ribs arched like bridges—
naked in a cold world
full of spoiled dreams.

The air—heavy
with rust and burnt ****.

Unseen eyes burn,
raking across her skin—
heat grabs at her collarbone,
spilling downward, molten,
slow.

Figures haunt her sides—
fixed, sinister creatures,
hooded in cold fog.
Their breath—low, rasping—
skims the pale fields
of her thighs.

They watch with jagged mouths,
stretched wide—hungry—
she remains frozen, silent—
unable to run.

Beneath her feet,
the ground sears her soles—
bruises throbbing—
purple and black.

Her heart, raw and wet,
hangs loose in her chest—
like a pendant in her neck
about to fall, beating—scared,
fragile, uncertain.

She cradles her head,
not to hide—but to remember
the soft rhythm she once knew.
If you think she is difficult—
just stop fueling her demons,
you don’t know what surviving
is about.

Above her, a pallid figure waits—
too far to touch, hauntingly familiar,
standing between the pit in her body
and the darkness that devours her.

The night breathes with sharp fangs—
She is alone in its grasp, and
she wonders how much of herself
will be left when the shadows
are done with her.

We search for shelter—
two shadows moving between spaces,
palms scraped and scarred but open,
not seeking refuge but something softer—

We search—not for doors that lock,
but for walls that breathe,
for corners where the wind slows,
where silence smoothes hearts soft.

We carry this shelter,
like stones wrapped inside poems
we placed in our pockets—
proof that we are not alone.

We gather room to breathe—
where closeness begins in trust
and the patience between our words
where neither of us has to explain
to our demons to stand down.

We do not build with haste.
We do not name this place too soon.
We let it stand and settle,
until the day we know—
this is home.

And when the world rages,
and the night feels too wide,
when the wind screams and howls
of vampires and life-leeching ghouls
we do not run from light and darkness
we do not fight—we stand, together,
having each other’s back
until the storm has nothing left to take
from us and this strong shelter.

A poem can't be open-minded
A poem can't be thoughtful
A poem can't be endearing
And a poem can't certainly know better.

A poem can’t cook
or can't even be a limp noodle.

A poem can't do anything—
Except show us how good we are at giving
And maybe teach us how to give to ourselves.

Life slips—
a bit too wired
like spilled wine
on a fuse box
lit by nerve and need.

The heart heaps—
misdeeds piled
like dead leaves
wet with wanting—
intent goes feral—
beakers
barrels
all spill.

Still
dirt is patient—
have a sharp shovel ready—
what’s buried
might not forgive
but it stays down.

A silent witness—
I do not ask
I do not offer
I do not even question—
all I can do is listen.

My heart resting
still as quiet rain.

Some griefs
are meant to echo
to fill the room without reply.

I do not turn away.
I do not quiet the storm.
I hold space
only a presence—

This is how I honor you—
not with words,
but with a silence
that lets yours
be heard.

As the train whistle calls,
it sits in the corner,
scuffed leather the color of burnt umber,
the handle worn smooth—
hands too hesitant to carry further.
The lock rusted—I’ve come to like—
its mouth clenched tight over secrets.
Each click of its latch—
a swallowed sob.

Inside, letters tucked in the pages
of my favorite books.
There is a note of apology,
exhausted from being turned over too often,
a confession hiding at the bottom,
like a ribbon of sorrow,
a name stitched into the lining—
a name I never learned to erase.

One day, I will unpack it,
lay the words flat on my bed.
I will try them on—once more,
as if for the first time,
each syllable slipping over my shoulders,
like an ill-fitted coat—
too tight in some places,
and too loose in others.

But instead, it sits there—
an artifact from parts of me
that never knew how to speak.
And when I leave,
I pack it anyway—
its ache, a quiet anvil,
with a silence louder
than the wind—
carry it some more.

I am—
an unlit wick,
a sparrow unseen
in a flock of starlings,
a smudge,
in a trail of erased steps.

No one claims
the air I move through,
as names fall away,
unspoken—
a shadow too faint
to take notice.

I am—
and I vanish.

The crowd breathes
indifference,
dissipates—
a broken branch off a tree,
a blank page
torn out of a book.

I was—
now vanished.

I'm not always a good first impression—
sometimes my mouth staggers out
before my kindness gets dressed.
Sometimes I laugh at the wrong time
or forget someone's nickname
but remember their favorite color.

I know sometimes I can come off
as a misplaced sentence
in the middle of a calm paragraph—
but know I'm not the type to edit others.

Sometimes—
I look like a bold question mark
in a room full of exclamation points.
but I am not confused—
just hard to react
with built-in soft-spoken backup plans.

I want you to know—
I'm on your team even if it's left-handed
even when I blink too slow
or speak too fast and too long
stand too far away
don't say the right thing
at the right time—
or add thank you at the end of a sentence.

I may be awkward—
but I'm real and care loudly
even when it doesn't sound like it.

If I sit too long, time gathers in my chest,
as my mind sees the finish line waiting for me—
It makes it hard to breathe
not from the aches of the world,
but from the slow diminishment of time—
my own.

I find myself caught,
between the urge to fight
and the desire to let go,
between wanting to stay
and fearing I’ve overstayed
my welcome.

I wish I could run backward in time—
through rain-soaked streets
where I should have spoken,
to rooms filled with words
I swallowed down.

To rewrite a road already traveled—
I’d keep close only a few,
kind souls etched in love and loss,
and have us meet on softer roads
and brighter dawns,
let love linger longer—
so much longer—
before it learns to fade away.

But the clock never bends,
so I dwell in tiny moments,
trading the vastness of tomorrow
for the precious depth of just one day—

There is comfort in knowing
not all battles are won
with clenched fists
or held breaths.

I have no wars left to fight—
only the love for others left in me,
fading to purple, barely breathing—
but finally unmoored.

Lovers drift, apart,
brushing skin like slow wind—
barely there, then gone.

My hands knew
what I should do.

My mother understood how—
carefully carve into my soul,
shaping me softly.

She was never one for goodbyes—
you behave
she used to say instead.

Her mouth learned
how to make me know
she meant it.

My hands understood,
my heart, too.

We built a bridge
out of chalk outlines,
soft lines drawn with our careful hands—
a meeting place of sorts,
where we approach without fear,
where breath is light and unburdened.

Our demons watch, restless,
lurking at both approaches,
waiting for tensions to appear,
but we ask the rain to come,
to wash, to erase,
to show them how we stand—
how we move freely
without breaking.

We are not in a hurry—
if the lines smudge, or
if the rain turns to flood,
we will draw again, again,
and again, if we have to—
slowly learning how to build
boundaries and bridges.

One day,
when the shape holds
and the bridge can carry us,
when we step forward
without shrinking back.
We will meet in the middle,
where the chalk fades into stone,
where the weight of the past
cannot pull us under.

And our demons—
forced to wait on each side—
will learn, at last,
how small they have become
here, at Boundary Bridge.

The bourbon
curves
to the bend
of frosted glass—
ice drifts,
aching to be sunk,
collapsing
under
a slow burn.

The amber
liquid
turns to gold
in my palm—
I lift it
to my lips,
time drips thin,
as my mouth
fills.

All that is left now—
a soaked
orange slice
and
an itch
for another
pour.

The moss stretches thin
across the arms of trees,
clinging the way a chill
catches at the back of a neck.
The pinch before darkness thickens—
I, too,
feel the night settle,
and drape myself
in shadow.

No one asks—
why the sky rests in my chest,
why I lean toward the dark,
why the trees bend closer
each limb bracing
against the silence I carry.

The night knows—
it tightens its hands
around the quiet in me,
kindles something small,
lets it smolder
before swallowing me in.

This is how it feels—
to belong
to something
that will not speak
to kneel before silence
that will never answer back.

This house
hollow as sorrow—
air clings thick to the walls,
mute as tombstones.
Time—a cold stone,
lurks in the corners,
its face blind with grief—
its hands turning to dust.

I tell myself,
just one more day,
to stop trying to chase the dark away,
like a moth drawn to fire,
its wings flirting with ruin.
The floorboards wail beneath my steps.

Ghosts press against my neck—
hungry—wanting to feed on my weakness.
I try, in vain, seal myself shut.
Every sigh—
a blade drawn across a wound,
deeper than rust,
burning bitterly.

I am here—
fighting off shadows,
counting time in an hourglass,
its throat choked with wet sand,
waiting for the tide to rise
and carry me back to myself—

I’m not going to make it.

Hope is thin—
a tattered silk in a storm.
Still, I hang on.
There is something about being stung,
that pulls me back—
again and again,
to this aching, quiet fight
for more.

I thought it was a place once—
walls sagging like tired lungs,
a door swollen from a summer swell,
its brass **** that fit my hand—
now it slips through me, the way
colors fade from old paintings.

There is a howl tucked inside words—
an ache carved into letters,
a sound like a bird hitting glass.
Each time I reach for it,
it shatters differently—
a place I fled barefoot
when no one was looking—
a warmth rubbed thin,
threadbare as past voices
heard through a slamming door.

Now,
I wonder if it was ever real,
if home was the heat I carried
in the hollow of my chest,
the space I carved between ribs
and marrow, where I could
curl up and sleep.

Maybe it’s not a house,
after all but a scent—
wet towels or burned toast.
Maybe it’s the way the air
catches a shiver at dusk,
a voice still calling—ragged
and raw—asking to come back,
not to what was once,
but to something wide open —
an unlatched gate,
a stranger’s open palm,
wanting nothing but to stay.

I have learned
to listen
to the soft voices
of broken things—
rain sighing on roofs,
curtains moving
like ghosts,
wildflowers aching
to bloom
in forgotten patches.

I see broken hearts
all around me—
I know without asking,
where what might have been
is buried—
standing there in their ruins,
shadows heavy on their dreams.

I lean into empty spaces,
stray through cold drafts,
search their sorrow—
as if this fractured quiet
could teach me
how to help them
feel unbroken again.

Even as I know,
I break too.

It begins soft, like the touch
of fingertips trailing your neck,
each note a sensation, a memory
from a deep pocket in your heart.
I sit by the window—
light slanting across my face,
as if the song brings back the warmth
of someone who is no longer here.

Stréliski plays as though
she knows the precise measure of aching—
the heft of it—how it brands into the chest,
drawing you forward,
closer to the keys, closer to the past,
closer to the place where a single chord
could bring you to your knees.

The piano returns—
the way her hands hovered,
above the keys
like a sparrow deciding
whether to take flight or stay,
the way she would play until dawn.

With eyes closed,
the melody gathers,
a gust through bare trees,
the kind of wind that tugs at your coat
and uncovers the truth
you have been trying to avoid.

In the music,
I see her hands, veined and sure,
holding the ache of a life spent
between silence and song.

The last note hangs,
suspended like the final break
before silence.
It’s not an ending—
more like the pause
when the wind shifts,
and you feel it—
this change, the way
it both moves you forward
and leaves you behind—
making you want to listen
all over again.