Last Dance In Sunset
The sky turned orange for us,
like it knew goodbyes should look like fire
before they turn to ash.
We’re laughing under it,
but it’s a thin, breaking kind of laugh —
the kind you use when your chest hurts.
You tease me. I tease you back.
Trading words like we’re trading heartbeats,
like if we keep talking,
we won’t have to hear the ending.
Your hand in mine.
Both of us pretending
we don’t feel how cold my fingers are getting.
We spin slow, so slow,
like the slower we move,
the longer the sun might stay.
We sway from side to side,
Basking in the cool, autumn breeze.
We watch as golden leaves fall from their trees,
Mirroring our relationship as it slowly reaches its end.
But the pathway ahead is wide.
And empty.
And no one’s coming to save us from it.
Last hugs.
I held too tight.
Last kisses.
I tasted salt.
Last time you lead me through our final dance,
count the beats I couldn't hear,
and call it grace.
The music's stopped.
But my feet still remember how to break.
Your head finds my shoulder
like it’s done a thousand times before.
You whisper about my two left feet.
And I’m laughing — God, I’m laughing —
but it’s wet, and it shakes,
because if I stop,
the silence will rush in
and fill the space where your name
used to mean tomorrow.
I’m trying to memorize you.
The sound. The weight. The way you fit here.
For when the dark comes.
And it’s coming. I can feel it
in my bones.
The orange sky goes thin.
Paper-thin.
The music’s gone. We knew it would be.
We turn to leave, and I can’t look at you.
If I do, I won’t go.
But our shadows still hold hands
across the wide pathway —
one last, foolish, broken thing
that doesn’t know we’re done.
Then the sun slips below the edge of the world.
And they let go.
Like it didn’t hurt.
Like they weren’t us.
Sunset.
And I’m still cold.
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 6:04 PM UTC
His life right now: wreckage.
The once bright boy now choking in a gulf of disgrace.
Hope gutted in just a few seconds,
Falling prey to something he’s slain before. And before. And before.
In his skull, he’d conquered.
Among friends, he’d stand sovereign.
But then, as fast as it was raised,
His world came splintering down.
Back in square one, he rots,
The square he bled to transfigure,
Tried to transfigure into a vast, airless circle.
But now, all his efforts have gone up in ash.
"What will I do" he rasps,
Scavenging for counterfeit hope in the answers he gets,
Wishing he’d never worn so much arrogance,
So when he’d shatter it wouldn’t flay so much.
"At least it’s not the grave" he lies,
"Other chances will crawl in" he chokes out.
Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s not.
But who knows what the abyss holds.
He just has to sit and witness,
As his story keeps hemorrhaging.
Keep hope on life support,
To see what fate has rigged.
It may be salvation, it may be slaughter,
But you know what?
Who the hell cares?
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 5:37 PM UTC
From deep in a well of bad decisions,
Emanates a spring of regret and anger.
A spring that never runs dry,
Yet leaves you like a dry well.
You think the spring's outbursts will give you some release,
But it only carves room for more sorrow.
Little by little the pressure builds,
Until it's released- swift as a ****** bullet.
More pain comes from realising something:
"You're the cause of everything that's happening,
You're a terrible person, a liar,
And you were never truly loyal".
You damaged bridges to maintain one which was "out-of-order",
And now the government of your mind has shutdown maintenance.
They read the "heartfelt" messages you sent,
Never knowing they were bait.
You were never worthy of the privileges,
And despite knowing this, you messed up, every single time.
Your hunger took the wheel from responsibility,
And your habits made you choose the wrong wars.
Your actions got the better of you,
And drove you straight to your Waterloo.
And now you crouch in the wreckage you drafted,
Tallying ghosts on the headstones you carved.
No chronicles will mark this skirmish.
No monument for the campaign you lost to yourself.
Just a parched pit. A flood that keeps pouring.
And you, unlearning how to thirst for both.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 3:35 PM UTC
Not by choice- just how I meh-ry-go-round.
Too many feelings, too small a voice.
Outside? Roses in forced perfection.
Inside? A pit of tar, thick and voiceless.
Heartbreak became my only rhythm.
Peace? Just an echo of chaos I'm used to.
Where joy once danced in daylight,
Now- silence lies, hidden in plain sight.
My thoughts feel static. My heart?
Unbothered.
But in the core-
A ghost of fire, still carrying the hue of hope.
Flickering, faint... but never gone.
Through thorny ways, it's walked alone.
Outlived storms, outlasted siege.
Not with steel- with scars.
Not with pride- with pain.
Love?
I gave it pure, refined through fire.
But gold once bent, doesn't always shine.
Now I walk with my meh- not a mood,
But a map of everything that broke and stayed.
And yet, if this is the price of feeling deep-
Then call me poor in peace, but rich in ruin.
Because, the truth is:
I'm not what survived the fire-
I'm what the fire made.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 4:02 PM UTC