my love,
will we ever find each other again?
in a world
that doesn’t keep us apart
like we were something
meant to be unfinished
i imagine it sometimes—
a place where
there are no distances to measure
no reasons to let go
no quiet goodbyes we never said out loud
just you
within reach
the way i always held you
in my mind
i would not hesitate there
i would not lose you
to timing, or fear, or anything unnamed
i would choose you
in every version of myself
without wondering
if you would do the same
but here—
in this life—
i only have the almost of you
and a love
that keeps believing
it will find you again
somewhere softer than this
somewhere
where you are finally mine
and i am not dreaming alone
— faye
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 9:57 AM UTC
toxicity isn’t the only word
that describes the roof we live under.
Oh, perhaps a ghost house?
But aren’t the walls still echoing
with the loud shouts we endured as children?
No—
apparently, that was just “normal.”
Or was it abuse
disguised as discipline,
as love,
as something we were never allowed to question?
A “home” we dream of—
but oh, home,
why do I still search for you
everywhere I go?
I was born homeless.
Homeless?
Yes—homeless,
but with a roof over my head.
Walls still echoing
the same loud noises,
shattering into pieces
I was told to pick up quietly.
Father—
haven’t you claimed yourself as mine?
Then why does your love feel like something
I have to earn,
again and again?
Mother—
can’t you see the silence eating me alive?
The invisible wounds,
the quiet breaking?
Won’t you save your daughter?
Why do you fight?
Don’t you call it love?
Haven’t you said that you loved me?
Then mother—
why do I feel homeless?
Father—
why do I search for your love
in every person I meet,
in every voice that sounds kinder than yours?
Isn’t home supposed to be our solace?
Then why do its walls echo like thunder,
loud enough to drown a child’s heart?
Where is the happiness
I see living
in other families’ lives?
“Elder daughter”—
why is she the one
who learns to cry in silence,
while carrying the weight of a world
no one sees on her back?
Oh, home—
what a tragedy you’ve become for some of us,
that we must bleed onto paper
just to survive you.
Oh, home,
when will I ever be able to reach you?
Or will you
ever reach me?
Or am I destined
to keep searching
for a place
that was supposed to be mine
from the very beginning?
—faye
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 6:37 AM UTC
She visits me in sleep,
as if she once had a right to exist.
In dreams, she belongs—
with an eye-smile shaped by kindness,
the kind that softens a room
before a word is spoken,
and a way of loving learned early:
quiet, attentive,
as though the world bruises
what is gentle.
She would look like love’s echo—
not only in face,
but in the way warmth settles in her gaze.
In her, patience would meet mercy,
his tenderness, my careful heart,
joined without learning cruelty.
She looks at me as if she knows me,
as if she remembers
the love that imagined her.
As if she has lived long enough
in longing itself
to belong.
I wake before she can speak.
That is how I know she is not illusion—
only a life love dreamed too vividly
to disappear.
—faye
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 8:00 AM UTC
When death takes my hand
and promises to find you in every lifetime,
I shall not tremble.
With my other hand,
I will reach for you.
For even in endings,
my love does not loosen its grip.
Let worlds collapse,
let time forget our names—
I will recognize your soul
the way the moon knows the tide.
If death must walk beside me,
let it bear witness:
that love, once chosen,
is not bound to breath alone.
I will carry you across lifetimes,
not as memory,
but as destiny reborn.
—faye
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 5:20 AM UTC
What name befits the heart
that loosens its hold on what it treasures most?
The soul that whispers farewell
while every pulse still cries thy name?
O, they walk in shadows of their own devotion,
bearing a gentle sorrow no eyes may see.
To let go is to cut a piece of oneself,
to bleed silently beneath the cloak of dignity,
and yet smile,
so the beloved may step into sunlight
unbound, unshadowed, free.
They are autumn in human form:
a fading leaf,
golden and trembling,
released from the branch they love,
surrendered to the wind,
yet radiant in their sacrifice.
No scorn, no envy, no bitterness—
only awe at the quiet courage
of a heart that loves enough to hurt,
that bends beneath the weight of love
and still rises,
bearing the grief of longing
as a gift,
that the other may soar unbound.
O rare and noble soul,
thy love is not lost,
but folded in the silence between
farewell and memory,
and there it shall dwell
forever, luminous, unbroken.
—faye
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 6:18 AM UTC
The most tender thing—
to write thy beloved a handwritten letter.
Scarred? Nay—
Perhaps the most intimate art of all?
Intimate, indeed.
Seated at the desk,
quill trembling in hand,
the candle’s musk weaving shadows upon the page,
silence speaking louder than speech,
I seek the words that dare capture thee—
thy laugh, thy sigh, thy soul.
To write is to love;
to love is to inscribe upon paper
the very beat of one’s heart.
How shall I show my devotion?
By ink, by pause, by the trembling of my hand
that traces thy name like a sacred prayer.
Shall I press thy favorite flowers within these leaves,
letting petals whisper what my tongue cannot?
Shall I fold my longing into every crease,
each stroke of ink a heartbeat, a vow?
Ah, letters!
Thou art the truest love language—
more intimate than breath,
more faithful than spoken word,
a love eternal, folded within parchment,
waiting for thine eyes to awaken its soul.
—Faye
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 1:53 PM UTC
When first they loved, the heavens turned away,
For fate had sworn their joining was a sin.
Steel sang where vows once trembled, pale with pray’r,
And blood made red what hope had written thin.
He fell with her dear name upon his tongue,
A dying oath no mercy dared to hear.
She reached him late—too late—her sorrow young,
Her hands baptized in loss, not love, but fear.
The blade that kissed his heart knew not her cry;
The world stood still, yet cruelty moved swift.
She chose his death before a life denied,
And followed where no god would dare uplift.
Thus love lay murdered mid its sacred breath—
Two souls ***** made one at last by death
—faye
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 1:34 PM UTC
The saddest part isn’t the goodbye.
It’s knowing there’s no second world.
No parallel life where we meet again.
If I’ve lost you here,
I’ve lost you everywhere.
— faye
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 1:51 PM UTC
i stopped writing for the world
but the ache didn’t stop writing me
so here i am
again
with bleeding fingers
and softer prayers
-faye
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 6:34 AM UTC
In the empire of my ribs,
you are the only ruler.
No gates, no walls—
just endless streets
whispering your name.
-faiza
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC