How wretchedly stubborn you are,
Clinging to that tree
Like a man condemned,
Grasping at the last flicker of life,
Even as the darkness tightens its noose.

You knew, didn't you?
That this was never meant to last—
And yet, you hold on,
Like a soldier in the shadow of the gallows,
Waiting, not for salvation,
But for the slow mercy of death.

Is it time that terrifies you?
No.
Time does not heal.
It devours.
It gnaws at flesh and soul alike,
A ravenous beast that leaves behind
Only bones, memories, and regret.

And yet, despite knowing this,
Why do you still cling?
Is it hope?
Or is it that cruel instinct to endure,
Even when there is nothing left to endure for?

I wonder…
Perhaps it is not the fear of death that binds you,
But the terror of a meaningless end.
So you cling—
Because to fall is not merely to die,
But to be forgotten.

(How strange, that I should see all this—
In the silent struggle of a flower,
While the world moved on around me.)

What is love, if not a form of suffering disguised as ecstasy?
A poison sweet enough to sip willingly,
even as it corrodes the soul from within.
Love does not uplift—it devours.
It tears through a man’s defenses,
leaves him trembling, bare,
stripped of the armor he so carefully forged to guard his heart.

To love is to become a slave.
Do not be fooled by the poets who speak of its beauty—
they know nothing of its cruelty.
For love does not ask; it demands.
It seizes the soul, drags it to the brink of madness,
and whispers, “Jump.”

And yet, we obey.
Why? Because to live without love
is to wander a barren wasteland,
where the silence is more suffocating than the pain.
A man who has never loved
has never truly lived,
but a man who has loved and lost—
ah, he knows the weight of eternity.

But the true torment of love lies not in its presence,
but in its absence.
For even after love has withered and died,
it does not release its grip.
No, it lingers—like a ghost haunting the ruins of the soul,
whispering promises that were never kept,
taunting you with memories
that burn like embers in the dark.

And so, we love.
Not because it saves us,
but because, without it,
the emptiness becomes unbearable.

Yes, you were right. You saw through me,
unraveled me like an old threadbare coat,
left me standing, exposed, stripped of my clever disguises.
And yet, I lied.

Why? Perhaps out of habit,
perhaps out of some wretched instinct to survive.
Or perhaps because the truth—raw, naked, merciless—
is more unbearable than the lie itself.

You wanted honesty,
as if truth could bring us closer,
as if it were not a blade waiting to cut us both open.
But I know better.
The world does not want truth.
It wants the illusion of it,
wrapped in softness, dulled at the edges.

So I lied.
Not because I did not trust you,
but because I could not trust myself
to be seen as I truly am.

Had I met you in ruin, in madness, in despair—
perhaps then, we would have understood each other.
Had I found you when I was no longer trying to be good,
when I had nothing left to lose,
perhaps then, I could have loved you without fear.

But fate is cruel. It gives too soon or too late,
never when the soul is ready.
I met you when I still believed in hope,
when I still cared for the weight of consequence.
And so, I hesitated. I reasoned. I turned away.

Had I met you in the wreckage of myself,
I would not have thought of tomorrow.
I would not have measured my words,
held back my touch, silenced my longing.
I would have taken you—wholly, recklessly, without restraint.

But I met you at the right time,
when I still feared the cost of love.
And so, I lost you.

I watch them—talking, laughing, living—
as if the world were meant to be touched,
as if joy were something real, something graspable.
And I wonder, is it me who stands apart,
or have I simply woken to a truth they cannot see?

I try.
I speak, I smile, I step forward—
but the words taste foreign in my mouth,
the laughter sounds borrowed,
and every step feels like walking on ice
that will never hold my weight.

How strange it is, to yearn for closeness,
yet recoil from every outstretched hand.
To stand in a crowded room
and feel more alone than in the dead of night.

Perhaps there is a wall between me and them—
invisible, impenetrable.
Or perhaps the wall is me,
and there is no way out.

Ah, but do you see it? That shimmering illusion on the horizon—
the one that whispers your name with such tenderness,
the one whose eyes reflect a love you have longed for.
You walk toward it, drawn by its warmth,
but the closer you get, the farther it drifts away.

Yet it smiles at you, doesn’t it?
It gives you what you crave—a reflection of your desire,
a love that mirrors your deepest need.
But what is a reflection, if not a lie?
What is a mirage, if not a cruel joke played on the desperate?

You see it, don’t you?
That figure on the horizon,
just beyond reach,
whose eyes hold a promise that was never spoken.

But what is a promise from a mirage?
It does not speak; it only reflects.
It gives you back your own longing,
wrapped in the illusion of tenderness,
as if love could be born from desire alone.

And so, you chase it.
You stretch out your hands,
willing it to be real,
even as the sun scorches the illusion to dust.
But still, it lingers—in your mind,
in your dreams, in that quiet space
where hope and madness whisper to one another.

Ah, but here is the cruelest truth—
the mirage does not vanish.
No, it stays.
It haunts you, not as a memory,
but as a question that gnaws at your soul:
Was it ever real?
Or did I only love the shadow of my own yearning?

And yet—you loved it.
A love that was never returned,
and perhaps never existed.
But tell me, which is worse—
to be loved by a lie,
or to walk this world unloved by truth?

Tell me, did we meet before the world was born?
Did your soul brush against mine
when time was but a whisper in the dark?
For I know you—not as a stranger,
but as a wound I have carried forever.

You are not my joy, nor my peace.
You are the weight in my chest,
the shadow that lengthens as dusk falls,
the ache that reminds me I am alive.

A soulmate—what is it but a mirror?
A cruel reflection of all I have lost,
all I will lose again.
Yet, I would chase you through lifetimes,
through ruin, through fire, through madness,
if only to know that I was right—
that you were real,
that we were meant to suffer together.