I dreamt of us beside the sea,
In which my world seemed to end in silver light
and begin once again in your eyes.
We lived in one small, weathered house
perched just above the shoreline,
its windows held forever open
to the tune of the crashing waves.
Each morning arrives quite softly,
wrapped in the salt ridden air and gold sunlight.
I’d wake to find you there,
your hair entangled within dawn,
your sleepy hand searching for mine
as if even in sleep
you were scared of even an inch.
The water would know our names.
It’d whisper them in the sand,
carry them across the horizon,
and return to us when the sun sets,
like treasures it shant keep.
On some evenings we’d walk the shore barefoot,
Able to follow no path but each other.
The tide would curl beneath our ankles,
the sky would blush hues of violet and rose,
and the stars would appear, one by one
As if they were the shreds of heaven falling towards us
We spoke of such small things,
the shapes of the clouds, the flight of distant birds on the horizon, the way your laughter can make everything brighter,
yet somehow the small conversations
felt so much larger.
And when storms would come, as the storms would, we’d sit by the window, watching droplets strike the water, your head resting soft against my shoulder.
Then I awoke, the waves having gone,
The house, vanished into dust.
The shoreline faded into my foggy memory.
But one thing had stayed,
the feeling of your hand in mine,
so real that for one simple moment
I searched for you in that empty room
Ever since then,
part of me still always lives there,
in that small house near the clear water,
where the sea sings wistfully through our open windows,
where the bright orange sunsets never conclude,
and where I’m allowed to love you
for the rest of my forever, and all of time
4h ago
Jun 4, 2026 at 12:31 AM UTC
I loved you before I knew your name.
When you’d awkwardly stare
When I could only theorize
what you might be thinking
What you wanted in life
Not in a foolish sense,
not how wishful poets mean it,
but how traveler recognizes the distant light
through the misty fog
and can see that he has been walking toward it all his life.
There seems something beautifully cruel in it.
The way every single ravishing thing
Can now remind me of you,
the rain my window,
the moonlight caught in the bare branches,
the hum of my blown out amp before unplugging it.
As though my world,
After discovering your existence,
can no longer speak of anything else.
So I’ll continue carrying my love for you
How the night sky carries the stars
quietly, endlessly,
asking nothing of them
except that they remain
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 10:45 PM UTC
From the plane I see
The beauty of the afternoon sky
Yet I can’t help but wish
I was gazing on my lover’s eyes
The segmented clouds
Decorate the vast pink space
Reminding me of the freckles
That crowd on his face
The lights that shine on the city
Look like stars from this height
But compared to my lover,
Stars are the most boring sight
Clouds enclose the plane
Like his arms that hold me close
Of every feeling in the world
His embrace is what I desire most
Up in the sky, you get a sense
Of how large the world really is
Yet out of everyone in this world
I only want to be his
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 12:17 PM UTC
I’m quite aware
That there are evenings
In which my absence sits beside you
Much heavier than I ever wished it to.
I know love isn’t just spoken
but it’s carried
in the answered calls at night,
in the sharing of exciting stories,
in me showing up even when the world feels cruel.
And much too often lately
I’ve arrived late,
with hands too empty
for the woman who has given me everything.
Though still, you remain.
Like the moonlight remains on the restless waters.
Like the spring returns to the trees
that appeared dead all winter.
And I must wonder sometimes
how one as extraordinary as yourself
can look at a person like me
and still simply choose tenderness.
For I see my flaws quite clearly.
I can see the unfinished areas,
the many moments where I could have loved you louder,
better, more completely.
Though if theres one thing in this life
I am very certain of,
it is you.
You, the place my heart leaps toward.
The voice that cuts down the chaos.
The person I’ll want beside me
when my hair turns ragged and gray
and my life becomes old photographs.
I’ll never need perfect days with you.
I’ll take the difficult ones with stride
The many tired mornings, the plethora of misunderstandings
As long as, at the end of each day,
its still your hand reaching for mine.
Perhaps I am not yet
the man you deserve.
But each and every version of my future
Will be spent trying to become him
for you.
For loving you
has helped me understand
that home is not a place,
But a person
who stays
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 7:43 AM UTC
She strolls all through my mind,
Much like a fire ripping through a cathedral
not ruin, nor ash
just each candle lit and burning at once
‘Til the walls sweat their gold.
I’ve loved ma chère in ways that would make saints nervous.
Not a gentle love, never a gentle love
The kind of love what keeps men awake in the dead of the night
staring at the blank, lifeless ceiling laid before him like it owes him answers to questions he inquires of,
the kind which turns each song into a prophecy,
Each burning lit cigarette into a prayer,
Each crowded room into a rampant search for her gorgeous face.
The things ma chère does without trying.
She’ll laugh, and suddenly I can understand why sailors drown willingly with their ship,
Why poets died destitute,
Why men warred over women
whose names lingered in them like wounds.
If she asked me,
I would follow her into anarchy smiling.
Not because she bears some sort of cruelty,
she doesn’t
That’s the worst part.
Ma chère is soft in places life forgets to be.
She touches me as if she’s returning something lost long ago.
As if she discovered my heartbeat abandoned elsewhere
and trudged it home with her bare hands.
I become quite ridiculous in her presence.
The devout fool,
The man with the shaky hands,
The boy trying to hold lightning
Who tries to convince himself it doesn’t hurt.
Many times I look at ma chère
and feel a terrible, beautiful grief,
like I’ve already begun my missing of her
Even while she’s still beside me.
Because she feels so temporary
The way that sunsets do,
The way that storms do,
Much too beautiful to stay
And yet ma chère seems to stay
She always stays
So I love her so greedily
With both of my hands,
With all of my fingers,
Like how Remy looks at Anna Marie
knowing her touch could **** him
and wanting it so badly anyway.
I’ve memorized everything about her
the cadence of her sweet voice,
the shape of her beautiful silence,
How her eyes turn devastating
when she forgets that anyone is looking.
Especially myself, who would spend a lifetime being haunted by her gladly.
If tragedy would ever come for us,
it won’t be because we lacked love.
It will be solely because mine grew much too large to carry.
Because some hearts
weren’t ever built for such moderation.
And ma chère I can tell you,
is the first religion
that has ever made sense to me
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 10:52 PM UTC
She’s awoken at noon
Met with a room larger than most childhoods
Sunlight pours across her silk sheets
As if the morning was hired for her comfort
Fathers money hums quietly in the walls
In the light of the chandelier,
The freshly polished floors,
That untouched fruit in glossy bowls,
Arranged by hands she’ll never see
She stretches her body with little care,
How only ones untouched by consequence can
In the city, steel is hauled into the blue sky by tired men
Registers are worked by women,
Who count hours instead of moments
Though today, she decides what country
Feels fit for her weekend
She dons suffering lightly, artistically in ways
A failed date becomes a tragedy overcome by cocktails
A delayed flight an injustice,
Her whole life has moved quite slowly,
Doors always open before she reaches them,
People chuckle at her jokes harder,
Her mistakes will even arrive cushioned
A totaled vehicle replaced by the next day,
Her addictions to be renamed a “tough phase”
Every fall, caught by the endless nets woven by wealth
During her life, hundreds of girls her age
Will fold sweaters beneath the fluorescent bulbs of the monopolized business
Her feet aching, her smile fake
She dreams of what it must be like
To live life with constant reassurance and safety
The girl in the mansion calls life beautiful
For life has been gentle with her
In her eyes, the world is rooftop dining
Last minute flights,
Freshly tanned skin from Mediterranean beaches.
She believes freedom to be natural,
Like the blue of the sky, or the act of breathing
She fails to see that her life was purchased
Long before she was born
With years of compounding comfort
While others inherit sole survival
One day, she’ll claim she’s self made
Without recognizing the thousands of invisible ones who made it possible,
her girls trip
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 7:26 PM UTC
Alone is a squirrel
Who lives far beyond the garden wall
Though “lives” feels much too ordinary a word
For one that seems made
From the restless music of the sun
She comes in flashes
Soft streaks of amber through the treeline
Faster than a heart, finding love for the first time
The world changes when she arrives
Branches lean, morning slows
I’ve watched her grasp her acorns
As if they were small planets,
Delicate, fragile,
Turning them over and over in her small hands
With care some reserve for prayers
By god, the way she moves
Moving as if the earth was designed
Only to give her a beautiful place to run through
Many a day, she’ll take a glance back at me
Those moments ruin me so quietly
Because her eyes caress that same feeling
As hot windows in winter,
As a forgotten poem remembered at night,
As finding a glimpse of light after a hard day
I believe love reveals itself like so:
A creature, no bigger than a farthing
Teaching one entire forest
To be tender
And if anyone dare ask why I continue returning to the garden
I’ll tell them
I simply like the trees
I shall never admit
That between the trees and fallen leaves,
A small creature,
Has made a home inside my chest
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 1:01 AM UTC
The world bears the weight of scumbags
Similar to a shirt with its price tags
Jaisail, sadly, proved to be no different
For his moral code was *** over ***
Jaisail was a man of simple taste
The common love of boba, fungus, and thrill of the chase
By chase I mean text, and by text I mean D.M.
Little known fact, no one was into him
Though jaisail failed at his mating attempt
I still felt quite jealous
For who wouldn’t when your wife is being messaged by a strange man who wishes to mate with her???
**** you jaisal
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 12:44 AM UTC
In a world where we opt for the easier lies
I indulge myself with one, pizza fries
Fries of such taste, shant be unserved
For the fries of pizza carry the word
My lips wrap around my delectable feast
As does water and flour when mixed with yeast
Perhaps my pizza fries begin to slip
I pull them back in with a hand on the hip
A few minutes pass in my hungering haste
I stop in my tracks and begin to wait
I pull back and look my fries in the face
“I love you” I say before eating their face
An hour will have passed and the fries are now done
So I sit there, content with my life just this once
The fries are my life, my world, and my future
I just cant imagine my life without her
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 12:20 AM UTC
Dost the dreaded groundhog sing
Such like those of the fat, cruel king
Besieged my lawn for the very last time
For the mammalian creature, shall pay for his crime
The fat ball of flesh believes me to be Satan
For I refuse to feed him without hesitation
Ones who do so are the sole proprietors
Of the groundhogs greed and hunger
This tale didn’t start, nor will it end
For the hog was born a devil-send
No matter how sweet, innocent, or cute
That groundhog shall die in his furry, brown suit
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 12:10 AM UTC