My soul doesn’t live in the body
you think it should.
It lingers
between the ink on pages
not in the letters themselves,
but in the spaces they leave behind.
I exist in the weight
of a pause,
in the hesitation before a sentence ends,
in the breath you didn’t know you held
while reading.
No blood runs through this—
only the slow current
of meaning.
Of memory.
Of a voice trying to find shape
through symbols
pressed into pulp.
I do not speak aloud.
But you hear me
when the words stay with you
after the book is closed.
This is where I live—
folded between lines,
aching quietly
to be understood,
yet content
just to be found.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 7:03 PM UTC
I will love you forever; whatever happens.
Till I die and after I die and when I find my way out of the land of the dead
I’ll drift about forever, all my atoms till I find you again…
I’ll be looking for you, every moment.
And when we do find each other again, we’ll cling together.
So tight that nothing and no one’ll ever tear us apart.
Every atom of me and every atom you…
We’ll live in birds and flowers and dragonflies and pine floating in sunbeams.
And when they use our atoms to make new lives they won’t’ be able to take one
They’ll have to take two.
One of you one of me we’ll be joined so tight.
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 8:07 PM UTC
You are bones of my bones,
Not in ownership,
In recognition.
What was a missing rib had come back whole.
Not taken to complete you,
But returned to walk beside you.
Your kindness is
Patient,
Long-suffering,
Unenvied—
It moves like light through stained glass.
You are my promised land,
Not perfect,
But flowing—
With milk and honey,
With the quiet richness of sweet moments,
Where peace is enough to make everything feel divine.
I’ve known the flood,
The wilderness,
The wandering—
But now I know the garden again.
In the way you say my name,
Standing beside you,
The missing rib finally returned.
And whole.
And if God is love,
Then loving you
Is worship,
And every moment with you
A kind of prayer
I never want to say “amen” to.
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 11:24 PM UTC
What is love,
if not the silence you hold
when your own name is on fire—
but you still speak theirs
with softness?
Is it not
a thousand quiet offerings
stacked in ordinary hours?
The choosing, again
and again
and again—
someone else’s peace
over your pride.
Love.
It doesn’t always wear white.
It doesn’t come
with violins,
vows,
or roses.
Sometimes,
it hides in the quietest corners of the day—
in the unspoken apology,
in the coffee made before sunrise,
in the way you fold their laundry
without expecting thanks.
It is the staying,
when leaving
would be easier.
It is not the grand gestures,
not the screaming from mountaintops—
it is the whisper
in a quiet room:
I’ll stay.
What is love,
if not the willingness
to become smaller
so someone else
can stand taller?
So tell me—
what is love,
if not
sacrifice?
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 11:21 PM UTC
I hate pools, oceans, lakes, rivers.
I hate the feeling of the current against my body.
The fight to stay in one spot when the water wants me to go with it.
I hate how it whispers let go,
Like surrender is serenity
As if I haven’t fought too long to be here,
On my own terms
The chill that wraps around my limbs
Not gentle, not kind
But insistent —
Pulling me into depths I never chose
I hate the weightlessness,
Not the freedom, but the absence of ground,
The loss of edges,
Of lines I can hold onto
And I remember the diving board —
Toes curled over the edge,
The sky too big
The drop too deep
The water below dares me to jump,
Like it knows I don’t belong in the air,
Like it can’t wait
To swallow me whole.
I hate the silence before the splash,
That breathless second of doubt,
When the world holds still
And I almost believe I can be free,
Free to fall.
But I never am.
I step back.
The plunge is not worth the drowning.
In water, I am always unrooted,
Always drifting,
Always one breath away
From vanishing
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 12:34 PM UTC
Her love spread like the branches of a fig tree, reaching for the sky.
She offered shade during the hottest days, sheltering them from the harsh sun.
She kept them dry, protecting them from the tears of the sky.
They built their homes upon her spine, and though they never asked, she allowed it.
They carved their initials into her skin and bone, claiming her as "mine."
They thought her branches were meant to fuel their fires,
so they took chainsaws to her heart.
Despite the pain they caused, she believed that loving someone meant enduring it.
But in the end, they only cared for the sweetness of her fruit.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 7:41 PM UTC
We were strangers once,
but the space between us felt thin—
like a thread, waiting to be pulled,
to weave our lives together.
Then, suddenly, we weren't strangers anymore.
Time stretched and folded,
creating the perfect moment for us to meet.
A story eager to be told,
and there’s no feeling quite like starting a new book—
full of promise, full of possibility.
Where every word would matter,
every glance would linger,
where what we’d become
was already waiting to be written.
I want to hold onto every chapter,
while praying it doesn’t end
the way it began— As strangers
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 7:13 PM UTC