I walk with static on the station,
the hum a kind of meditation.
Noise feels softer than your favorite songs.
I see you sometimes in reflections,
or hear you in wrong inflections.
The way a stranger says my name feels wrong.
The moonlight pulls across the ceiling,
where once I traced the shape of feeling.
Now I just trace patterns, dusk to dawn.
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 3:39 PM UTC
Holding you, sometimes,
doesn’t feel like pretending.
Putting the pots and pans in the cabinet
in any way that they’ll fit —
In disarray, an ugly display,
hidden behind a closed door.
We laugh when it shuts.
“That’s a problem for later.”
There are parts of us missing
that I’m too frail to inventory,
too fragile to name,
too naive to know.
As we pick through avocados
for tomorrow’s breakfast
and debate whether the milk at home is still good,
I see it peek out —
Peering, with a grimace,
a feeling that I wish I didn’t know.
It’s almost time.
So, in the aisle,
I smile.
I thank you for remembering we need more milk.
You push the cart,
unload the bags,
carry the groceries in.
We’ll curl up on the couch.
And we’ll both know.
I’m hoping neither of us ever finds the strength.
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 4:01 AM UTC
There was a softness in our unknowing.
“Yes, we can play together.”
And play we did—
running for so long,
together,
but not very far at all.
Passing landmarks,
hand-in-hand,
missing milestones.
The sun goes down eventually.
And in the dark,
we are left there
as we really are:
petrified children.
We embrace, of course,
but we’re not sure how we got here.
We were children about it—
standing very straight in the dark,
both waiting
for the other to run first,
masking bravery
for each other.
So we backtracked,
legs shaking,
crying not from offense,
but from understanding.
The heavy kind.
The solid kind.
The kind that settles quietly between two people
who know there is no monster to outrun,
only the terrible realization
that we had wandered too far.
We did not run.
We walked each other carefully
to the edge of safety.
We faced each other the entire way out,
still hand-in-hand,
until the road forked quietly beneath us,
and loving each other
could no longer keep us walking side by side.
There is innocence in what we had,
and there is also cruelty.
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 3:40 AM UTC
The air now, it’s still.
No scalded skin. No smoke in my lungs.
Just breathing in, breathing again,
and a cold that I don’t mind waking up to.
I used to run towards the smell of a fire,
but sitting here, in the cold,
it feels like I was made for this.
I hate how nothing you say could catch to the tinder.
How your words fall like wet wood,
smoking without promise.
This chill, at least, is honest.
It holds no promises.
It would never ask me
to disappear
to keep it alive.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 6:25 PM UTC
I’ve got a ghost in the closet
and your name is written on it.
Lingers is the shame in holding on.
I still set two plates out for dinner,
like grief might make me thinner.
Now I’ll chew on my regret until it’s gone.
I sip my coffee black again.
The bitterness, a friend
that sticks around when sweetness can’t belong.
You haunt the sleeves in all my sweaters.
Each passing moment— a love letter
signed, sealed, delivered,
then withdrawn.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 2:56 PM UTC
You said it.
This is “what’s best.”
So please kiss my forehead
and put me to rest.
Leave the book
halfway unread,
on a whim.
Through vast, subconscious seas,
beyond the volatile storms of sand,
I feel you thinking of me.
Extend a charitable hand.
Tell me kindly,
we will never be
again.
Jun 12, 2025
Jun 12, 2025 at 11:01 PM UTC
What isn't consumed must be carried.
What you leave behind will always still count.
Crumbs gather
at the corners of my mouth.
Lips pursing,
I'll name it progress.
But the body will digest
what the mind can't push down.
So…
Is this feeling clarity,
or is it relapse?
Oh well.
On my plate,
I can still only stomach half.
May 27, 2025
May 27, 2025 at 2:30 AM UTC
I gave you
half-full cups—
to you, overflowing.
I gave you
measured warmth.
Wrapped it in pretty,
promised it was real.
I called you
gentle
so I could become it.
You brought me morning,
the good kind,
and time I didn't earn.
You gave me home,
a stillness,
and hands that didn't ask.
I brought you mirrors.
You stayed.
I flinched.
I don’t wish to hurt you.
Only to leave gently,
and that is still
a kind of cruelty—
to be kind.
Even now,
I measure sweetness
in what we almost were.
And still—
My love,
I love
you, love,
not enough.
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 5:07 PM UTC
Leave a message!
I can’t answer now...
or later.
I couldn’t even have then.
I just forget your voice
sometimes.
In glimmering,
lingering,
longing
glances,
I seem to
revisit how we met.
This is our season, remember?
This was our season,
remember.
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 3:19 PM UTC
I don’t dream of you often,
anymore.
But the notes in my coffee
taste like your morning lips,
evermore.
And though your mug sits
on the top shelf, collecting dust,
my vase sits on yours—
collecting more.
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 4:39 PM UTC