The signal is static, but the silence is worse,
two voices colliding in a long-distance curse.
The glow of the screen illuminates her face,
as she paces the floor of a lonely space.
It’s the absence, she says, her voice like a blade,
The lack of intent in the plans that you’ve made.
I’m not asking for diamonds or stars in the sky,
just the effort of showing up
not a maybe or why.
It’s like pulling a ghost through the eye of a needle,
while I’m left to carry the weight of the people
we promised we’d be when the world was a spark
"now I’m just a girl waiting alone in the dark."
The line crackles sharp with the weight of his breath,
as he fights off a feeling that’s colder than death.
"You don't let me shine," he fires back through the phone,
"Because you’ve already decided the seeds I have sown
aren't enough for the harvest you want right today.
You doubt every pocket, you block every way.
You look at my hands and you see they are bare,
so you treat every promise like smoke in the air."
He leans on his desk where the textbooks are piled,
the dreams of a student, frantic and wild.
"I’m still in the classroom, I’m still in the fight,
burning the candle at both ends of the night.
You forget that my now is a price I must pay,
to build you a later that won't fade away.
I can’t buy the world while I’m learning its laws,
but you find a failure in every small pause."
"I can only cater to a future," he cries,
with the grit of a man and the fear in his eyes,
"That is worth the promising, worth the long wait
but you’re judging the finish line right at the gate."
The call stays active, though nothing is said,
just two people dreaming in different beds.
One wanting the effort, the heat of the sun;
the other just wishing the race was already won.
~PJNK
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 9:12 AM UTC
The signal is static, but the silence is worse,
two voices colliding in a long-distance curse.
The glow of the screen illuminates her face,
as she paces the floor of a lonely space.
It’s the absence, she says, her voice like a blade,
The lack of intent in the plans that you’ve made.
I’m not asking for diamonds or stars in the sky,
just the effort of showing up
not a maybe or why.
It’s like pulling a ghost through the eye of a needle,
while I’m left to carry the weight of the people
we promised we’d be when the world was a spark
"now I’m just a girl waiting alone in the dark."
The line crackles sharp with the weight of his breath,
as he fights off a feeling that’s colder than death.
"You don't let me shine," he fires back through the phone,
"Because you’ve already decided the seeds I have sown
aren't enough for the harvest you want right today.
You doubt every pocket, you block every way.
You look at my hands and you see they are bare,
so you treat every promise like smoke in the air."
He leans on his desk where the textbooks are piled,
the dreams of a student, frantic and wild.
"I’m still in the classroom, I’m still in the fight,
burning the candle at both ends of the night.
You forget that my now is a price I must pay,
to build you a later that won't fade away.
I can’t buy the world while I’m learning its laws,
but you find a failure in every small pause."
"I can only cater to a future," he cries,
with the grit of a man and the fear in his eyes,
"That is worth the promising, worth the long wait
but you’re judging the finish line right at the gate."
The call stays active, though nothing is said,
just two people dreaming in different beds.
One wanting the effort, the heat of the sun;
the other just wishing the race was already won.
~PJNK
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 9:10 AM UTC
He brings her to my doorstep like a wounded bird,
with a heart full of static and a voice I’ve already heard.
She carries the shrapnel of a war I didn’t start,
jagged pieces of a before still lodged in her heart.
And I want to be the harbor, I want to be the light,
but God, I’m terrified of the way she grips me in the night.
It’s the way she flinches when I reach for her hand,
like she’s waiting for a blow I never planned.
She’s beautiful and broken, a masterpiece in pain,
looking for a shelter from someone else's rain.
But I see the architecture of the rebound in her eyes
the way she leans on me to muffle all her cries.
I’m afraid I’m just the bandage, not the skin;
the temporary structure where her healing can begin.
I’ll stay up until the sunrise, stitching up the tears,
absorbing all the trauma and the echoes of her years.
I’ll be the bridge she walks on to find her feet again,
the steady, quiet rhythm that helps her heart to mend.
But what happens when the color returns to her face?
When she’s strong enough to leave this sanctuary space?
I’m haunted by the vision of her finally feeling whole
packing up her bags and taking back her soul.
She’ll look at me with gratitude, a "thank you" in her breath,
before she goes to find the man she loves to death.
The one who gets the version of her that isn't terrified,
the one who gets the laughter she currently has to hide.
God, I’m scared to be the ladder that she uses for the climb,
only to be the person she leaves behind in time.
Must I be the medicine that she has to swallow down,
just to watch her wear her healing like a brand-new crown?
~PJNK
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 9:09 AM UTC
He brings her to my doorstep like a wounded bird,
with a heart full of static and a voice I’ve already heard.
She carries the shrapnel of a war I didn’t start,
jagged pieces of a before still lodged in her heart.
And I want to be the harbor, I want to be the light,
but God, I’m terrified of the way she grips me in the night.
It’s the way she flinches when I reach for her hand,
like she’s waiting for a blow I never planned.
She’s beautiful and broken, a masterpiece in pain,
looking for a shelter from someone else's rain.
But I see the architecture of the rebound in her eyes
the way she leans on me to muffle all her cries.
I’m afraid I’m just the bandage, not the skin;
the temporary structure where her healing can begin.
I’ll stay up until the sunrise, stitching up the tears,
absorbing all the trauma and the echoes of her years.
I’ll be the bridge she walks on to find her feet again,
the steady, quiet rhythm that helps her heart to mend.
But what happens when the color returns to her face?
When she’s strong enough to leave this sanctuary space?
I’m haunted by the vision of her finally feeling whole
packing up her bags and taking back her soul.
She’ll look at me with gratitude, a "thank you" in her breath,
before she goes to find the man she loves to death.
The one who gets the version of her that isn't terrified,
the one who gets the laughter she currently has to hide.
God, I’m scared to be the ladder that she uses for the climb,
only to be the person she leaves behind in time.
Must I be the medicine that she has to swallow down,
just to watch her wear her healing like a brand-new crown?
~PJNK
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 9:08 AM UTC
He brings her to my doorstep like a wounded bird,
with a heart full of static and a voice I’ve already heard.
She carries the shrapnel of a war I didn’t start,
jagged pieces of a before still lodged in her heart.
And I want to be the harbor, I want to be the light,
but God, I’m terrified of the way she grips me in the night.
It’s the way she flinches when I reach for her hand,
like she’s waiting for a blow I never planned.
She’s beautiful and broken, a masterpiece in pain,
looking for a shelter from someone else's rain.
But I see the architecture of the rebound in her eyes
the way she leans on me to muffle all her cries.
I’m afraid I’m just the bandage, not the skin;
the temporary structure where her healing can begin.
I’ll stay up until the sunrise, stitching up the tears,
absorbing all the trauma and the echoes of her years.
I’ll be the bridge she walks on to find her feet again,
the steady, quiet rhythm that helps her heart to mend.
But what happens when the color returns to her face?
When she’s strong enough to leave this sanctuary space?
I’m haunted by the vision of her finally feeling whole
packing up her bags and taking back her soul.
She’ll look at me with gratitude, a "thank you" in her breath,
before she goes to find the man she loves to death.
The one who gets the version of her that isn't terrified,
the one who gets the laughter she currently has to hide.
God, I’m scared to be the ladder that she uses for the climb,
only to be the person she leaves behind in time.
Must I be the medicine that she has to swallow down,
just to watch her wear her healing like a brand-new crown?
~PJNK
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 9:08 AM UTC
I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.
it was the first time I'd
realized
that.
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 1:29 AM UTC
God, I love your scent.
Forgive me.
I am speaking like a man leaning too close to his own loneliness,
like someone counting courage in empty bottles.
Your aroma does something dangerous.
It opens doors in me I keep padlocked.
One door holds the boy who once believed in love at first sight,
the other holds the man who knows love is not a lottery ticket
but a responsibility with rent due every month.
I saw you and for a second
my ribs forgot their job.
My chest became a cathedral with no priest,
just echoes.
There are two of me.
One wants to reach.
The other folds his hands and steps back,
because desire is cheap
but devotion costs a life.
I want you.
That is the simplest truth.
But I have learned that wanting a woman
and being ready for a woman
are not twins.
They are distant cousins
who don’t attend the same funerals.
So I stay away.
Not because you are not worth it,
but because you are.
On the fifth bottle I learn
that intoxication is honest.
It tells me I am not afraid of you.
I am afraid of failing you.
The beer burns,
but it does not burn like the thought
of holding something sacred
with unsteady hands.
So I sit with my longing
like a man outside a house
he cannot yet build.
And maybe that is maturity.
To admire the garden
without stepping on the flowers.
~PJNK
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 3:21 PM UTC
Though she was the Proverbs thirty-first
I loved,
I loved her more for how she spoke with God;
She brought the chapel back into the home,
And taught the walls to kneel where feet once trod.
Her nature bore the likeness of a flower
Her mother named her so; I named her mine.
Her petals made a dwelling of my hours,
Her fragrance taught my memory its time.
Her beauty held Eve’s image, born anew,
Scripture upon her breath, not on display;
Creation paused, as though the Maker knew
Perfection need not shout to have its say.
She moved as rain that blesses without sound,
As soil that keeps the secrets seeds must know;
In her, all wandering seasons gathered ground,
And learned the art of staying where they grow.
She did not ask the world to call her fair
The earth itself confessed her as its own.
~PJNK
Jan 26
Jan 26, 2026 at 11:29 AM UTC
The world is but a canvas faded, torn, and dry,
A once-blue masterpiece now choking in the sky.
Hearts once bloomed like lilies in the sun’s soft tune,
Now wilt beneath the neon glare of synthetic moons.
We traded kindness for convenience,
Truth for trending disobedience,
Empathy for ego’s crown
And wonder for the algorithm’s frown.
Where laughter danced upon the lane,
Now silence hums its dark refrain.
Where children played beneath the storm,
Now strangers pass, detached, uniform.
O, once the stars would serenade the night,
Now smog and sorrow dim their light.
The constellations we used to trace
Have vanished, like memory, without a face.
I’ve seen mothers pray with hollow eyes,
While greed feasts where innocence dies.
We feed on screens, not souls,
And call our emptiness “goals.”
Yet I remember
When home was not four walls, but warmth;
When struggle shared was half its weight;
When a scolding meant love in disguise,
And joy was a child’s muddy fate.
But love
Love has become a fossil in time,
A relic buried beneath mankind’s climb.
We dissect its corpse in coffee talk,
Quote it, post it, but rarely walk
Its narrow path of give and bleed
The only soil where hearts still seed.
So I stand here
Among ruins of roses and concrete dreams,
And whisper to the hollowed seams:
If love be lost, let art remain,
Let poets bleed to cleanse the stain.
For even in this drained estate,
A spark survives
Defiant. Late.
A world once drenched in love may thirst,
But one who yearns shall write it first.
~PJNK
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 3:27 PM UTC
My lungs learned your name
before my mouth ever dared to.
They held you like oxygen,
something vital,
but too sacred to waste carelessly.
Every breath became a practice in restraint
inhale love,
exhale silence.
I wasn’t ready,
so my lungs did the loving for me:
quiet, careful, disciplined.
Even now,
they hesitate between breaths,
as if the air might still taste like you,
as if loving loudly
might collapse my chest.
I didn’t leave you.
I just taught my lungs
to survive without you.
~PJNK
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 6:48 PM UTC