To find,
"Friends to lover" or "lover to friends"
I have set the red traffic light for hours
I have ink up every line on my palm
To find the crossover which could connect us
I made the invisible line called almost lover.

I was Athena once,
With wisdom enough to reshape your soul
But I let my thoughts consume you instead.

My voice,
fierce enough to summon thunder,
whispered as rain when it touched you
My words blended in the chaos of your sins.
I wore my silence like a crown of thorns,
not because I was weak,
but because I chose to bleed in the shadows,
While you walked away.

I could be Ares,
raining fire,
striking down those who dared wrong me.
Yet, for you,
I’ve been Persephone in the underworld,
half-alive, waiting for spring,
tasting death in every breath I held back.
I’ve watched my own hands tremble,
as I let you hurt me,
slowly, deliberately,
while I swallowed the poison you left.

I was known for raising my voice,
like Hera’s rage shaking Olympus,
but now, where are my words?
I can’t see them, can’t summon them.

I’m tired of bleeding myself dry,
tired of watching the wound reopen,
each day a slow death.
I know you’ve walked away,
but this time, I want you back.
Come, untie my stitches with your hands,
and let me die all at once,
by your side, where I belong.

Like Hector, waiting for the final blow,
I won’t run, I won’t hide.
I’m no more a warrior,
just a soul, begging for the end.
Let the fates cut the thread.

You’re not meant for the garden,
where hands pull what they want,
where blooms are here and gone,
just flashes before they fall.

You belong on the mountain,
half-hidden, wrapped in mist,
beyond reach of those
who’d never think to climb.

They might call you dandelion,
like something easy, everywhere—
they want you to bloom right here,
to grow wild, to bend for them.

But you, you are something rare—
rooted deep, untamed,
meant for hands that will climb for you,
that know just what you’re worth.

So hold your place on that hill,
where the ghost orchid blooms alone,
not in the crowded garden’s rows—
but somewhere that’s wholly your own.