I lay shackled
in this desolate room of mine.
Even now,
a lingering drop of a beat remains.

Even the sight of air
that resembles you—
makes my core outlandish
and unfamiliar.

Vanishing all my obligations,
as if they were only dreams.

And yet,
I ask for nothing
but freedom
from the curse that has befallen me.

I’ll wait—
I’ll long—
I’ll dream—
of the day I see the smile
on your face again.

you called me
the cure
without
ever reading
the fine print.

now you call me
a curse,
despite my explaining
that healing
comes with a burn.

in the future,
call me
however you like,
just don't come back
when you miss the high.

i dreamt about us —
a forbidden touch,
where hands met,
souls intertwined,
shirts unbuttoned,
drunk on wine.

i dreamt of the slowest burn —
sparks from your lips
merging with fuel from mine
tilting my entire world
upside down.

‘did you sleep well?’ you ask,
stirring your morning coffee.
i smile, face flushed with heat.
‘i had such an angelic dream.’

There's a bakery at the end of this dead-end street
It has lots of pastries with nothing to eat
I'm hungry so I hold your hand from across the miles
In your distant touch I feel a peace and start to smile
(a missing piece, more missed than missing now)
Let’s turn this dead-end to a through-street somehow
Even pouring concrete is romantic I’ve found
when done together with you…

Decades passed, in review:
I was happy on that journey, now sorry it’s through.
I miss being best friends with you.

look what you have left on me –
a bouquet of stitches,
still-healing scars,
fine lines I can’t conceal
etched across my heart.

and what of your voice haunting me?
I hope to God it disappears.
someday, I won’t even remember,
that all of this was ever real.

Is it too late to tell you how i feel?
honey, don’t answer.
I couldn’t bear to hear
all the things you’d have to say.

So keep those lips sealed,
and let me silently pray,
that one day these scars heal,
and fade into nothingness
along with your name.

this poem, honey, is all you’ll get –
not out of cruelty,
but fear.
every time I opened the door,
you’d flinch,
step back,
and leave me
with unsaid words,
and cruel bitterness.

i was always the kind
with a toothbrush to spare
reserved for only you,
not knowing who you'd be.

a friend, perhaps, in need
of a soft bed and duvet,
a midnight love, leaving
just as sudden as it came.

maybe i was always
hoping that my sanctuary
would be enough,
and maybe, just maybe,
you'd peel the old love away,
like paint from a windowsill—

but you never stayed.

echo island
invites me to dine on its shore.
the wild orchid, hidden and torn,
begs me to linger,
weaves gold in my hair —
and claims me,
its trophy,
unaware.