I’ve only ever seen two outcomes
in terms of meeting people:
you’re either betrayed
or forgotten about.

and sometimes I’d rather take
the malicious stabbing of bad faith
over the slow waltz with the long knife.


that’s all.

they forget you fast.
faster than you blink.
like a dream that fades
before you can think.

you meant the world—
until you didn’t.
they said forever—
but never meant it.

you missed one call,
one laugh, one night,
and suddenly
you’re out of sight.

they move on
with brand new faces,
fill your space
with different places.

you were the hand
that held them tight.
now you’re the ghost
they leave at night.

no goodbyes.
no sorrys said.
just silence loud
inside your head.

they forget your voice,
your jokes, your name.
they play the part—
but not the same.

you still remember
what they wore,
the way they cried
behind closed doors.

but they forget.
and that’s the sting—
you gave them everything.

and they
gave you
nothing
back.

now you're the song
they used to hum.

a half-heard line.

a quiet
"what’s his name again?"

does our distance make you sad? 6.29.25 (6:45 pm / 18:45)
does our distance make you sad
or are you just forgetting

do you remember those days we had
sitting next to each other
small and smiling
carefree

do you remember meeting me
kindergarten classroom
i kind of don't
it seems so long ago
but i remember we were instant friends

do you remember every day
when i came into the classroom, always later than you
we'd run up and hug each other

do you remember how we loved each other

you act like you've forgotten
you act like we were never friends

love i know we were broken apart
but is that a reason to forget me?

i remember you
oh, you

[playing: somewhere over the rainbow - live from manchester by ariana grande]

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.