We danced in fire, we spoke in stars,
Our whispers rode on midnight cars.
Your laugh would bloom where silence grew,
And every dream began with you.

But now your words fall cold and thin,
Like echoes lost in rusted tin.
Your hand once burned to meet with mine
Now slips away, devoid of sign.

We used to kiss like time stood still,
Now even touch feels forced, uphill.
We shared a world, a sacred art
But this is a far cry from the start.

No storms, no fights, just quiet air,
And all the passion stripped to bare.
We smile on cue, we play the part
Yet love has slipped out from the heart.

So here we are, not near, not far
Two strangers orbiting one star.
And though you’re here, I fall apart
This love’s a far cry from the start.

You don’t notice it at first.
Not really.
Life keeps you busy with noise, with dreams, with the next thing.

But then one day,
you cross an invisible threshold.
There’s no signpost, no celebration
just the quiet erosion of what once mattered.

The body falters first.
Not dramatically - no, it’s more insidious than that.
You wake up sore from sleep.
You get winded climbing stairs you once ran.
You start measuring your days in energy, not hours.

Then come the dreams
the ones you clung to like anchors.
They begin to dissolve.
Some shrink into hobbies, others vanish with a sigh.
And the ones that remain?
Too fragile to chase, too old to birth.

Your beliefs shift too.
Not because they were wrong,
but because the world keeps insisting you make room for things
you once swore you’d never tolerate.

You adjust.
You settle.
You survive.

But the worst part
the part no one warns you about
is the people.

One by one,
they begin to leave.

Some give you time.
They let you prepare your goodbye.
Others vanish mid-conversation,
leaving cups half full and promises unfinished.

And what’s cruel is not just that they’re gone
it’s that nothing fills their space.
You try.
You pretend.
You build new connections like patchwork quilts.
But nothing fits quite right.

Because love, real love, isn’t replaced.
It’s carried
as ache,
as memory,
as absence you learn to walk around like a piece of furniture in the dark.

You keep going, of course.
What else can you do?
You make tea.
You water the plants.
You smile at strangers and nod at the sky like it still owes you something.

But deep down, you know:
This is what it means to age
not the wrinkles, not the gray.
It’s the slow, silent disappearing
of everything that once made you feel
alive.

Approach, dear dreamer, if you dare,
But know my skies are thin for air.
My steps are stitched in woven flame,
My name, too sharp for lips of shame.

You came with hands of dust and thread,
A crown of noise upon your head.
No sword, no gift, no golden key,
Yet thought to tame a storm like me.

Did Daedalus forget to warn his son?
Even Icarus soared closer than you’ve done.
You chase the sun but dread the cold,
A heart too timid, a hand too old.

I dance where only giants tread,
I feast where lesser men have fled.
I wear the stars, I breathe the skies,
I kiss the sun where eagles rise.

So take this truth I lay in rhyme:
A throne too high is not a crime.
It is a gift for those who soar
Not for the ones who beg at doors.

Oh, the sound of Your mercy
a calf’s skull cracking like wet fruit
between the lion’s blessed jaws.
Such elegance in hunger.
Such holy punctuation in the scream.

We praise Your benevolence
in the slow bleed of the gazelle,
its legs still dancing
long after the gut’s been opened.
A waltz of grace. A lesson in letting go.

Behold Your love, you the all loving,
as it comes ashore in Tsunamis,
dragging children from their beds
into the arms of the tide.
Baptism by bone and salt.

Oh Creator, architect of fang and flood,
Who crowned the strong and taught them to drink blood.
No wiser hand could craft such law divine
Where nature loves the slaughter, by design.

Your favor is a wildfire,
Your kiss, a plague.
Your will, a butcher’s hymn
we dare not question
lest You love us harder.

To you Lord,
forever we bow and say,
Amen.

In the hush between heartbeats,
I hear the echo of your laughter
a memory not yet made.

You, a whisper in the wind,
me, chasing shadows of a smile.

If you feel this too,
leave a word behind
let’s write our story together.

Apart from your mother…

Only insurance companies
pray you live forever
no crashes, no coughs,
no inconvenient surprises.

They pray for your safety
with more sincerity
than your friends ever did.

No backhanded compliments,
no masked resentment.

They’ll cheer for your success
as long as it’s mild.
Celebrate your fitness
but not too wild.

[Narrator:]
A bird once flew with joy, chasing the horizon.
But the sky grew heavy, and his wings grew tired.
One evening, he fell by the quiet sea.
A young girl found him, her hands full of dreams.

She knelt by his side and asked:

[The Girl:]
I found you trembling near the dreaming tide,
Your feathers torn as though the heavens cried.
Tell me, worn traveler, where have you flown?
What hunger drove you past the worlds you’ve known?

[The Bird:]
I chased the rim where fire and heavens kiss,
A line of gold no hand can ever miss.
I sang to suns, I danced where eagles dared,
I broke my heart on dreams that never cared.

I rose, I fell, I rose again and bled,
Until the winds unwove the life I led.
The sky, sweet child, is vast, but it forgets;
It makes no grave for those it once begets.

The sky is not a temple, but a field of knives.
The stars you seek will teach you how hope dies.
To fly is to wager all you are and own,
And to be forgotten even by the stone.

Freedom is a flame that eats its own,
A summit where the winds strip flesh from bone.
Dreams build their monuments from broken wings;
Songs leave behind the silence that they bring.

[The Girl:]
I hear the hollow echo in your song,
The mourning stitched between the bright and wrong.
Your wings are altars where the old prayers bled;
Your eyes, a ledger of the tears you’ve shed.

Yet if this is the price that freedom claims,
If every flight must carve itself in flames,
Then I will pay with all I have and more.
Better to burn than to be chained ashore.

[The Bird:]
Bold soul, you walk the edge where light falls blind;
You court the storm that cracks the clearest mind.
I too once roared against the tethered clay,
Believing wings could tear the night away.

But listen:
Not every fall redeems the climb.
Not every song survives the mouth of time.
To dream is to accept both birth and grave,
To build, to lose, to give what none can save.

[The Girl:]
Still would I leap, though cliffs erase my name;
Still would I sing, though silence be my claim.
Let it be said: she lived, and she was free
And when the end came, she did not flee.

If dreams devour, let them feast on me whole;
If stars betray, still shall I bless my soul.
Better to vanish in a sky of flame,
Than bear a life untouched by any name.

[The Bird:]
Then fly, fierce child, into the ruthless blue;
Let winds unmake you, they will make you true.
The sky is cruel but it remembers one:
The heart that dares to burn brighter than the sun.

I see the endings in their birth,
The wilt curled in the bloom,
The echo in the first soft word
That hums of pending gloom.

Yet on I go, with knowing steps,
Down paths that twist and burn
Not for hope, nor fate, nor faith,
But just to feel the turn.

It’s not some tragic grandeur,
No noble, aching art
Just a quiet urge to prove myself
The fool I knew at start.

In the beginning, the universe was simple
hydrogen adrift, uniform, featureless.
No spark. No shape. No meaning.

Then came gravity. the invisible hand that pulled atoms toward each other.
Not out of need, but out of attraction.
It didn’t shout. It didn’t rush.
It simply drew things closer.

And in that closeness? Friction. Heat. Fire.
Stars were born.
Inside those stars: gold, carbon, diamond, uranium, the rare, the radiant, the necessary.
Then came life. Then came us.

Without gravity, the universe would have remained cold. Silent. Pointless.
With it, it sang.

So too with love.

We, too, begin as scattered selves.
Drifting. Guarded. Independent.
Then someone enters our orbit
not violently, but undeniably…
and we feel pulled.

And when love is real - not forceful, but fundamental - it becomes gravity.

It creates heat where there was indifference.
It forges meaning where there was monotony.
It makes the rarest things - trust, sacrifice, ecstasy, forgiveness… possible.

Without love, we remain inert.
With it, we combust into something bigger than ourselves.

Not every force is loud.
Some reshape the cosmos… quietly, persistently - one touch at a time.

He said:
Have you noticed how the sun commands the sky
bold, blazing, untouchable?
She smiled:
And how the moon listens
soft, steady, and never once needing to burn?

He said:
Fire must be a man - restless, hungry, loud.
She replied:
Then water is surely a woman
quiet, patient, but strong enough to carve canyons.

He teased:
Isn’t logic masculine?
She countered:
Only if emotion is feminine
and both are useless without the other.

He smirked:
Strength is a man’s trait.
She tilted her head:
Yet childbirth is not for the weak.

He whispered:
Desire… now that must be a woman.
She leaned in:
And control? That, my dear, is a man’s fantasy.

He said:
Betrayal wears a woman’s perfume.
She said:
And vengeance wears a man’s cologne.

He said:
War is written in a man’s script.
She replied:
But peace is cradled in a woman’s hands.

He paused, then confessed:
The world may have been built by men…
She completed him:
But it is held together by women.

They sat in silence,
neither victorious,
both understood.

Because every question seeks to conquer -
and every answer longs to heal.

Love…

I owe you an apology
not for what I did,
but for what your dreams said I did.

Somewhere in your sleep,
I lost my mind, my vows,
and apparently my clothes.

You woke with distance in your eyes,
and I knew:
I’d betrayed you in a world
I never touched.

So let me say this
I’m sorry for the man
your dream invented.

And I promise,
as long as you sleep without nightmares,
I’ll stay faithful…

even in your imagination.

If a dog could speak,
he might look up at you and say:

“Please
don’t call your human traitor… a dog.
Don’t give our name
to those who lie,
who bite the hand
then kiss the air.

We don’t forget
a kindness once given
not a crust of bread,
not a warm place by the fire,
not a voice that called us friend.

We wait at the door
long after the footsteps fade.
We guard graves.
We sleep beside sorrow
without asking why.

When one of ours is hurt,
we circle close.
We bleed with them.
We never leave
unless we’re forced.

We don’t scheme.
We don’t pretend.
We don’t smile
with a knife behind our back.

So next time a human
sells love for pride,
abandons a friend in fear,
or forgets the one
who once saved them

Just call him Human.

For we know no other species
that buries loyalty
beneath convenience,
that trades truth
for applause,
that remembers insults
but forgets grace.

We,
with paws and silence,
would die for those
who once fed us.

You,
with words and reason,
sometimes ****
what you claim to love.

So do not stain our name
with betrayal.
Do not dress your disloyalty
in fur and fangs.

We are not like you.

And perhaps,
that’s why you love us.
Because somewhere,
in your better dreams,
you wish
you could be
a little more dog.”

Something in me always waited
without knowing what for.
A quiet space, a missing piece,
like a song I half-remembered
but never heard before.

Then you came,
like sunlight sneaking into a closed room,
like warmth I didn’t know I’d missed
until I felt it on my skin.

You touched thoughts I’d never spoken.
You woke up parts of me I didn’t even know were asleep.
You didn’t arrive… you were always there,
like a voice behind my voice,
a feeling in my breath.

So stay close.
Because when you’re not near,
I feel myself searching
not for someone else,
but for the part of me
that only exists with you.

I laughed - not for likes,
but because the sky was kind
and the breeze felt honest.

I wore comfort,
not costume,
and danced without a soundtrack.

No mirrors.
No filters.
Just me,
at ease in my skin,
and joy
quiet as a secret,
loud as my heart.

There’s something in her I won’t name
A hush of wind, a candle flame.
Not made for grasping, not to own,
She is the wild, the seed, the stone.

She doesn’t try to draw the eye,
Yet still, the world forgets the sky.
She moves as though the earth was told
To cradle life in curves of gold.

Her voice? It’s warmth in twilight air,
A lullaby, a whispered prayer.
Her smile? The sun through window panes,
That touches soul before it rains.

She doesn’t rule - and yet, she reigns.
She doesn’t fight - but breaks my chains.
She’s softness made by nature’s hand
To melt the steel in every man.

She speaks in silence, sees in shade,
And somehow knows what’s not yet said.
She tends, she weaves, she kneels to none,
Yet all I am revolves her sun.

I’ve seen her cry - and not from fear,
But from a strength too deep, too near.
A well of life, a boundless sea
That dares to bloom and still be free.

She is the reason poems start,
The gentle architect of heart.
The one who holds without a grip,
Who builds a world with fingertip.

And if the stars should all erase,
I’d find the universe in her face.
For she’s not mine - she’s something more:
The sacred I was made to adore

(A Symphony in the Air)

She passed
and the air forgot its name.
A trail of fire, wrapped in flame.
Not footsteps, no… she left a bloom,
a whispered spell, a haunting plume.

Jasmine bruised with midnight spice,
vanilla smoke and crushed device,
amber kissed by ancient lore,
and musk like sin behind a door.

It wasn’t scent, it was a hymn,
a chorus pouring from her skin.
Each note a memory, raw, refined,
a fingerprint the soul designed.

It danced on silk, it clung to bone,
it made the silence overgrown.
You smelled her once, now every room
aches for that ghost…
that perfume.

It wasn’t soft… it struck like wine,
first sweet, then heat, then serpentine.
It woke the dark, it stirred the bed,
it crowned the lips where words had fled.

Men forgot their vows that night.
Women wept with pure delight.
Time itself stood still to breathe
a scent like that will never leave.

It lives in coats, in creaking floors,
on letters slipped through velvet doors.
You lose her, yes - she slips too soon.
But you will always keep her perfume.

You think this is a tantrum?

Child

This is the wrath of gods
who waited centuries
before they raised their hand.

I am not your wounded girl.
I am Nemesis unchained,
Kali in stillness before the storm.
My silence was mercy.
You mistook it for peace.

I do not wail. I summon.
I do not flinch. I fracture.
Your name is already ash
on the altar of my patience.

I offered grace.
Now I offer consequence.

Run if you like.
Pray if you must.
But even Olympus learned
no one walks away
from a goddess enraged.

Of all the games
we learned to play
with jokes, with rules,
with risk and trust
we never chose
to lie.

But then you did.
And nothing
held.

No knot was tight,
no safe word sure,
no breath between us
true.

A whispered “yes”
became a guess,
and touch
a kind of theft.

Now every scene
rewinds itself,
the lines we drew
blurred…

For once a lie
slips past the lips,
nothing
truly grips.

They laughed when he showed up
with a résumé in hand.
Tail tucked, horns sanded down,
wore a tie, shook hands.

“I used to tempt kings,
whispered wars into ears.
Now I scroll headlines
and choke back tears.”

He tried marketing
but humans were better
at selling lies with smiling teeth
and discount codes for sin.

He applied for politics
but found the position filled
by those who make devils
blush in admiration.

Tried tech
but algorithms already knew
how to addict, divide,
and hollow out souls
with precision.

Even in war,
they no longer need whispers.
They bomb hospitals
and call it strategy.
He offered corruption.
They offered quarterly targets.

“They don’t need me anymore,”
he sighed to the clerk.
“They’ve mastered the craft.
I was just a spark
They made it an industry.”

Now he wanders,
CV in flames,
hoping someone will want
a washed-up fallen angel
who simply can’t compete
with modern man.

I never forgave my twin brother
for abandoning me
for six minutes in our mother’s womb,
leaving me there alone,
terrified in the dark,
floating like an astronaut in that silent space,
while kisses rained down on him from the other side.

Those were the longest six minutes of my life
the minutes that made him the firstborn,
the favored one.

Ever since, I raced to be first:
out of the room,
out of the house,
to school,
to the cinema
even if it meant missing the end of the movie.

Then one day, I got distracted,
and he stepped out to the street before me.
Smiling that gentle smile,
he was struck by a car.

I remember my mother
how she rushed from the house
at the sound of the impact,
how she passed by me,
arms outstretched toward his lifeless body,
but she screamed my name.

To this day,
I’ve never corrected her mistake.

It was I who died,
and he who lived.

For a moment,
I was everything.

As we danced,
He spoke in sonnets,
promised castles and constellations.
I believed.

But when the music died,
so did he.
The stars blinked out,
the castle never was.

And I returned
to my table,
to my silence,
to a world that never danced.

With nothing in my hands
but the weight
of hollow words
spoken in fluent dreams.