There will come a day
when the world forgets my name before I even finish saying it.
The screens will go dark.
The endless noise of notifications, admiration, temporary worship —
all of it will vanish like rain on hot concrete.
And I wonder,
when I am no longer glowing through pixels,
when my existence is no longer translated into stories, posts, numbers, and echoes,
will you still recognize me
as something worth staying beside?
Because love is easy
when a person shines loud enough for the world to applaud them.
But real love begins
when the applause stops
and all that remains is an exhausted soul
sitting quietly in the ruins of its own becoming.
I do not want to become a modern prophecy,
another human sacrificed to the altar of attention.
I do not want followers who love the performance
but disappear when the actor forgets his lines.
I want the kind of love
that survives silence.
The kind that sits beside you on the floor
when life has stripped you of every title you once carried proudly.
The kind that says,
“You are still enough,”
even when ambition has collapsed into dust.
If one day I lose my faith in myself,
do not hand me motivational words.
Just stay.
Stay like the moon stays with the ocean —
distant perhaps,
but always pulling the tides back home.
Because in the end,
I do not care about being remembered by thousands of strangers
who only knew the edited version of me.
I only care if,
when the lights finally die,
you still reach for my hand
as if darkness was never something to fear.
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 1:28 AM UTC
We were never perfect—
I knew that the way
one knows rain will fall
even after clear skies.
I learned early
that expectations bruise easily,
that hope, when crowded,
forgets how to breathe.
So I let most things go—
promises, futures,
the shape love is supposed to take.
But you—
you were never an expectation.
You were a certainty
I didn’t need to name.
I asked for nothing else.
Not more, not better.
Just you,
standing where you already were.
And you stayed.
That’s how I know—
this isn’t perfection.
This is enough.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 2:11 PM UTC
There are things
I won’t say to you—
not because I’m silent,
but because you live
where my words would land.
If you were gone,
I wouldn’t collapse.
I would blur.
Like a name erased
from my own mouth.
I don’t want more than you.
I don’t survive with less.
You are the scale
by which desire learned
where to stop.
I give myself dreams
and answer them in your absence,
walk nowhere on purpose
just to pass
the thought of you.
Without you,
I still exist—
but not precisely.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 11:28 AM UTC
I am being taught by mornings now,
not by books,
but by the quiet way sunlight enters
without asking permission.
Once, I placed my weight on a shadow,
believing it would hold
because it always walked beside me.
I did not notice
how it thinned
when the clouds gathered.
Lately, my hands have learned
new habits—
how to steady a trembling cup,
how to fasten buttons alone,
how to wait without looking at the door.
There was a time
I mistook closeness for shelter,
mistook words for walls,
mistook presence for promise.
Need arrived like a storm,
and I watched the horizon answer instead of you.
So I am learning—
the way rivers learn new paths
after the bridge gives up.
Not in anger,
not in blame,
but in the soft discipline of survival.
Each day removes a thread
from the rope I tied around you,
and knots it gently
around my own wrists.
This is not distance.
This is gravity correcting itself.
This is me discovering
that even abandoned seeds
can teach themselves
how to reach the light.
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 8:52 AM UTC
the day feels like a room
where all the furniture has quietly lost its purpose—
chairs forgetting how to hold,
windows refusing to frame the light.
I walk through it
like a ghost misplaced in its own body,
hands touching objects that do not answer back,
as if the world has slipped its color
and refuses to tell me why.
my thoughts scatter
like papers in a wind that no one else feels,
pages written in a language
I no longer remember learning.
even my reflection drifts,
a blurred constellation
trying to stay arranged
while gravity keeps changing its mind.
I reach for rhythm, for order,
but everything shakes loose—
my voice, my focus,
the thin thread holding the hours together.
and in the quiet
I stand inside the storm
of a life I can see
but cannot quite hold.
Dec 6, 2025
Dec 6, 2025 at 1:37 PM UTC
The first time I saw you, my breath forgot
the map of calm—
your hands were small storms, your smile
a question I wanted to learn.
Nervousness trembled in the way you
stood, raw and honest,
and that rawness lit a fierce, immediate
gravity between us.
We stitched closeness from hurried
glances and midnight confessions,
built a fire with borrowed words and
laughter that refused to cool.
In the narrow hours we became the
fiercest kind of known—
two restless hearts that chose to keep
beating in the same language.
There were quarrels that cut like winter
and silences like closed doors,
but every crack taught us how sunlight
enters, how to hold a hand through pain.
We fell, we rose; the falling learned to
trust the rising,
and every bruise turned into a map that
led us back to each other.
Perfect is not the absence of storms but
the way we navigate them—
your breath in the dark, my stubbornness
like armor, our stubborn love like a vow.
I love you not because we never break,
but because we mend with thunder—
fierce, unafraid, utterly ours.
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 3:49 PM UTC
A dream is a quiet room inside a boy’s heart—
built long before he learns the weight of doors closing.
Everyone looks at him the moment he turns twenty-one,
as if adulthood is a spotlight
and he must stand in the center without trembling.
Parents wait with bright, hopeful faces,
believing he will one day lift their names like lanterns.
And the boy—soft inside but unwilling to show it—
promises himself he will honor every wish they ever whispered.
But time matures faster than he can keep up.
Jobs don’t arrive.
Opportunities pass like trains he couldn’t run fast enough to catch.
The world presses on his shoulders—
a pressure that makes breathing feel like a debt.
Disappointment grows quietly,
like a shadow he can’t outrun.
He avoids eye contact,
because even a single glance can feel like a question
he no longer knows how to answer.
All he wants is a little support
from the people he calls his own—
hands on his back, not on his throat.
But even that slips away,
and loneliness becomes a second skin.
Some nights he calls himself useless,
a failure carved by fate—
yet he rises again,
because something inside him refuses to die.
A boy never truly gets to be just a boy.
He is always someone’s responsibility,
someone’s future, someone’s anchor.
A son in childhood,
a partner in love,
a husband in promise,
a father in continuity.
He carries roles the way the earth carries seasons—
without permission, without pause.
And still, in this world,
some are judged before they speak,
tagged with names they never earned—
monsters in a story they never wrote.
The honest ones keep walking anyway,
because duty does not loosen its grip
even when the world does.
This is what a dream becomes for him:
not an escape,
but the quiet decision to try again
even when everything inside him is breaking.
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 9:57 AM UTC