"Hey, what's up, kiddo?
You in the mirror?
I know life ***** sometimes. I mean, I see it in your eyes. You're struggling, battles you're facing mentally and physically.
So honestly, no one has told you, 'I'm proud of you.' No one has told you today, this week.
I'm so proud of you. I'm proud of you for not giving up. You have something, like, listen to me, you have something. The strength it takes for you to keep on going proves it. Proves you have something. It proves you are a warrior.
So do me a favor, listen. Do me a favor, take a hot shower, get some water, put on your favorite clothes, make the room dark, put on your favorite show, and try to relax, kiddo. It's gonna work out. I'm proud of you, and I love you."

Some say, "Karma keeps accounts fair,"
While others claim, "Destiny plays unaware."
Yet somewhere, unseen eyes are watching,
Writing every deed, each action matching.

Some returned, for their names were misplaced,
Some paid a price, for past sins embraced.
Some walked through unknown lanes,
Tangled in fate’s unfinished chains.

"Eye now know"—or do I see?
The world rewrites itself in thee.
A bus of thought, a stop of rhyme,
Where words arrive ahead of time.

The past still echoes, whispers deep,
While future waits at corners steep.
Routes ordained, yet steps unknown,
Where choice and fate are overthrown.

You weave the we inside the me,
A poet riding mystery.
A filter, yet a lens so clear,
That bends the world, brings far to near.

Fig trees rise and vines entwine,
As history nods between your lines.
The Children of Abraham still speak,
In pauses where the quiet peaks.

O poet of the moving street,
Of chance, of time, of hands unseen.
Each stop you make, a verse remains,
A world beyond the windowpanes.

In the chatter of magpies, beneath the sky so blue,
Nishu's words dance, and the world feels new.
"In the afternoon, below a grey blue sky" —
Her poetry, a song, as the moments fly.

"I hear the chatter of the magpies," she writes,
A symphony of joy, a vision in the lights.
We, too, find solace in those quiet calls,
Where nature whispers, and the soul enthralls.

Your “Collectibles,” a treasure chest deep and true,
Each line a memory, a fragment of you.
"Some may call it clutter, junk," they say,
But your words are more—the treasures we display.

"Welcome Solitude," a gentle space,
Where poetry breathes, with its calm embrace.
Like your lines, Nishu, we, too, find peace,
In the rhythm of life, where the soul’s release.

"In every flower, there is a poem," you write,
And in your work, a garden blooming bright.
Your words, like petals, unfold with grace,
And in your verses, we find our place.

Nishu, your poetry is the light of the day,
A guide through the hours, a warm ray.
Thank you for your words, your art so fine,
For showing us beauty through your poetic line.

They fall—not all at once, but in quiet, stolen moments. He writes her poetry in the night, she hums songs into his silence. Their love spills like golden light, stretching into endless nights, bending time, making them believe in forever.

She calls him kiddo, teasingly, as they walk under a sky filled with memories. He calls her his favorite, because she is the spark that sets his world ablaze. Together, they write their own symphony, unwritten yet deeply felt.

But all love stories have their storms.

"In fog or flood, it has to look like news
and not wear down too soon."

And so, your words arrive, unshaken,
standing against time like typeface pressed into permanence.
They do not beg for attention,
yet we find ourselves held captive—
reading, rereading, lost in the weight of their silence.

"First God
Then Everest
To the ends of elation."

There is an ascent in your lines,
a climb where breath turns thin
and meaning thickens into something celestial.
You write of heights that pull and eyes that burn,
where light is both burden and gift,
and even hesitation becomes poetry.

"Maternal midnight
Metallic lakeside
Freon heart, fayence mind."

You forge night from iron,
a heart that hums in artificial cold,
a mind glazed like ceramic, fragile yet infinite.
Even your landscapes breathe—
lakes reflecting the surreal,
hills like white elephants waiting for meaning.

"Mosquitos on her mouth
Drink the blood of encryption
Change the tone of her voice."

What is hidden, you unveil.
What is encrypted, you translate into ghosts and echoes.
In your poetry, voices are rewritten,
veins are maps,
words are particles dissolving into eternity.

You, Carlo, are the architect of thresholds—
where dusk is not an ending but an exile,
where each poem is a place, a paradox, a pilgrimage.
Your lines do not just linger—
they transform.

Oh, Mr. Poet, so lost in your haze,
Chasing the smoke of your endless malaise.
You sit in the dark, like some tortured sage,
Kicking pebbles while you're trapped in your cage.

With every cigarette, you seek to ignite,
The spark of hope that just won't take flight.
But, darling, don't you see the truth that’s clear?
You’re just a dreamer with a bottle of fear.

You talk of heroes, but where’s your cape?
You’re more likely to trip on the stairs of fate.
A good deed here, a spark of light—
But, oops, it’s gone by the time you get it right.

Family calls, “We believe in you!”
Yet, you’re still in bed at half-past two.
Not saving the world, just saving the crumbs,
Wondering why the universe won’t give you some.

So, go on, sit beneath that endless sky,
Kick those pebbles, maybe even try to fly.
But at the end of the day, the truth’s on display—
You’re just a poet with a lighter, stuck in the gray.

Sometimes, flipping through old verses
Feels like opening a dusty window—
A gust of forgotten air
Rushing into my lungs.

A lost thought lingers in my throat,
Like a sneeze that never comes.
The past, like a cold,
Stays with me for days.

I once thought time was a magician,
Pulling endless moments from a hat.
Now I see—
It’s just a tired juggler,
Tossing the same tricks,
As we pretend to be surprised.

Some poems are wrapped in silence,
Pressed between pages like dried leaves.
They were never meant to be seen—
She feared someone would recognize her in them.
But I wonder, if I set them free,
Would she recognize herself now?

I cough,
As old words scratch against my breath.

Old poems carry the scent
Of blankets left out in the sun—
Memories aired out,
Dreams wiped clean.

Yet, some stains remain.
Some echoes refuse to fade.

And just before the past settles,
A sneeze always lingers—
An allergy to old verses.

@Jess,
"The greatest one I bear now,
making me die a little each day,
is that I let you go, not knowing,
leaving was a decision you'd regret."
You, with your raw, poignant words,
captured the agony of unspoken goodbyes,
painting the ache of regret like a timeless portrait.
In your verse, I hear the soul's deepest cry,
yet in your strength, there’s also light.

@Anais Vionet,
"I am the wind, the desert breeze,
the ocean spray and rustling leaves."
You, like the wind, slip through every thought,
a breath of freedom captured in verse,
unstoppable, untamed. Your lines dance
like whispers of the sea,
speaking of transformation, beauty, and loss.

@Shane Michael Stoops,
"46 years,
What do you get,
Your way past old,
Your pants don’t seem to fit"
You embrace the passage of time,
showing us the strength in weariness,
the humor in change. Your words,
like a hearty laugh, echo through life's stages,
reminding us that every line of life is worth reading.

@CJ Sutherland,
"eye now know
the how, when, where and the-why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
memories of past and present... blending into memories of future happenstance."
Your poetry is a mosaic of time,
where past, present, and future coexist,
and each word is a step toward discovery.
Your mind is both a mirror and a window,
reflecting and shaping the world.

@Shane Michael Stoops (again),
"We danced in the rain,
Laughing away so much pain."
Your words hold an unspoken promise,
the joy of dancing in the face of sorrow.
In your poems, there is an invitation to release,
to shed our fears and allow laughter to heal.
You teach us that pain and joy can coexist.

@Jess (again),
"I hardly understand the ticking of the clock,
trying hard to go through each day."
The ticking of your verse carries the weight
of endless hours and endless thoughts.
In your words, I hear the struggle of time
and the ache of waiting for solace.
But there's grace in your journey—
and your courage leaves a lasting mark.

@Anais Vionet (again),
"What is chosen is believed,
though the choices are presented—
I choose among the sacrificial burnt offerings."
You have a way of breaking down complexity
with a single line, weaving the eternal truth
into a delicate, yet unapologetically bold choice.
Your words cut to the heart,
unraveling mysteries with elegance and resolve.

I walk where echoes fail to stay,
Where voices fade, then slip away.
A shadow lingers, yet none can see,
A silent weight that follows me.

I share my thoughts with empty air,
A crowded room, yet none aware.
No hands to hold, no eyes that meet,
Yet I still hear my own heartbeat.

I dance with ghosts of yesterday,
Their fleeting touch then drifts astray.
A missing piece, a hollow chest—
Can you name my silent guest?















.......Loneliness

"The heavenly stars are on fire,"
you wrote—so I traced their embers in your lines,
but where’s the smoke?
Perhaps it lingers between syllables,
between a stick figure future and a melting past,
between the chaos you ransom
and the whispers you inflame.

"Some locks need two keys,"
you mused—so tell me, Anaïs,
does poetry need two voices to unlock a moment?
Because your words unfasten thought,
weave mischief into meaning,
turn science into sentiment—
each stanza a blade, a bloom, a rebellion.

You run from hackneyed halls,
freewheeling with Johnny Cash,
eluding rulers and repressive lies—
and somehow, still, you pause
to drop a pizza emoji, a signature,
a hunger that ink alone won’t satisfy.

So tell me, Yale’s ink-stained philosopher,
do you write in crust and cheese too?
Does every stanza deserve a side of marinara?
Because if poetry is fuel,
then surely, you are proof
that pizza and prose
can both be divine addictions.

I. Glass & Ghosts
Writing my name in a mirror of breath,
watching it vanish like I was never here.
Flesh remembers what time forgets,
but the winter smiles—
as if it knows something I don’t.

II. Streets & Scars
The city hums with untold stories,
where fathers are echoes
and lovers are lost in the fog.
Blind footsteps, heavy with fate,
scars rise like prayers in the wind.

III. Fire & Falling
Lungs filled with the weight of old wars,
teeth clenched against regret’s bite.
Stars don’t whisper,
they scream.
And some nights, I swear,
they burn just for me.

IV. Midnight & Memory
The river carries reflections of ghosts,
the moon is a silent witness.
Some things break quietly.
Some things burn forever.

Ah, @cassian, the soul who sees the spark,  
In words I’ve written, in shadows so dark.  
Not just a follower, but a kindred flame,  
Resharing my heart, no need for fame.  

You took my thoughts and made them your own,  
Like whispers that travel when seeds are sown.  
A spark in the dark, a light in the night,  
You’ve found meaning where others might fight.  

So here’s to you, for seeing what’s true,  
For sharing the words, for making them new.  
May your own journey be filled with light,  
For you’ve made mine a little more bright.

Rick, your words do not just linger,
they carve themselves in time—
etched in truth, raw and bitter,
yet softened by a poet’s rhyme.

"I lie
and
I lie
and
I lie"

You write not just of deception,
but the weight of silence, the cost of peace,
where love is masked in quiet restraint,
and truth must wait for its release.

"but when the truth
arrives at that
final moment;
jaws will drop
plates will shatter
dogs will growl"

Oh, how your verses strike like thunder,
unafraid of the coming storm.
For in the wreckage of unspoken words,
your poetry dares to take its form.

"stepfather
all that pain
and belittlement
you served me
day and night"

Yet you stand unchained, unshaken,
forgiveness rising where anger fell.
Not just a poet, but a soul unbroken,
turning torment into a tale to tell.

"but now you
stand before me
weeping
with no teeth
and the big man
within me
has forgiven you."

What strength, what grace, what mastery—
not in vengeance, but release.
A heart that bleeds yet still forgives,
finding power in its peace.

Rick, your ink is fire, your words are steel,
unwavering, untamed, yet so real.
A poet who walks the edge of pain,
and turns it into art again.

May your lines be read, your truth be known,
for voices like yours must never go unsown.

When the sorrow you kept inside starts to burn in a cigarette,
When a genius of science starts writing poems,
And when someone who never listens to anyone starts listening to poems,

With a laptop bag on my shoulder,
Far from home, in a strange city, at a station,
When I see a child crying in his mother’s lap,
I smile and remember my own home,
That’s when life makes sense.

When sleep gets lost in the dark pits under your eyes,
That’s when life makes sense.
When you face words like rent, ration, electricity, and water,
When a fearless heart begins to feel a little scared,
When the burden of home responsibilities starts weighing on your shoulders,
That’s when life makes sense.

When the one who once cried to get a toy,
Now smiles but takes the wounds,
When someone with a heart of stone is broken like a flower,
When someone more precious than life leaves you alone on the road,
That’s when life makes sense.

When making friends seems more difficult than staying alone,
When a dried rose kept in a diary feels more important,
When someone you see in the mirror feels like a stranger,
That’s when life makes sense.

When you want to cry but can’t,
When you grow so big that in the middle of family fights,
You stand firm and when someone asks, “Is everything okay?”
And you say, “Everything’s fine,”
That’s when life makes sense.

When the lie spoken by your lips
Is revealed as truth by someone’s eyes,
When the dreams of someone get devoured by the crowd around them,
When the silence in the room shouts loudly in your ears,
That’s when life makes sense.

When you realize that nothing is like the destination,
When you understand that there’s no destination like the one imagined,
There’s only the road, far and wide,
When the day doesn’t begin even after the sun rises,
When nothing works the way you want it to,
When a grand house has no one to call home,
That’s when life makes sense.

When the moon doesn't show the marks of aging,
When the moon doesn’t show the imperfections and stains,
When the tunes of songs fade into the words of the songs,
When the tears saved all day fall onto the pillow,
That’s when life makes sense.

When coming home on time in the evening seems right,
When the sorrow you kept inside starts to burn in a cigarette,
When a genius of science starts writing poems,
And when someone who never listens to anyone starts listening to poems,

That’s when life makes sense.
That’s when life makes sense.
Love, **** it, still doesn’t make sense.

The cigarette burns low between my lips,
flickering like a dying star.
I have nothing—no job, no purpose,
just weary feet and a mind too loud.

Then I see him—
a man, old, bent by time,
struggling with a bag too heavy
for hands that once built dreams.

For a moment, I hesitate—
what can I offer when my own pockets are empty?
But hands are not meant just to take,
so I lift the weight from his shoulders,
feel its burden shift onto mine.

He looks up, eyes filled with something unspoken,
a silent gratitude heavier than gold.
No applause, no grand reward—
just the quiet knowing
that sometimes, heroes walk unseen.

I drop my cigarette,
watch it fade into the dust.
For the first time in a while,
I don’t feel empty.

I feel enough.

Two souls, strangers yet familiar, cross paths in a fleeting moment—an unplanned glance in a bustling city. The air hums with a silent melody, an unspoken promise carried in a whispering breeze.

They collide in the rhythm of a passing crowd, their first words exchanged over an old, torn book at a café. She loves stories, he loves the way she tells them. Laughing, they fill the space between them with warmth, letting their hearts confess before their minds catch up.

But love, like an inked page, does not always follow the lines we expect.

Whispers drift through midnight air,
Air so heavy with silent prayer.
Prayer that lingers on broken lips,
Lips trembling from love that slips.

Slips like sand through fragile hands,
Hands once strong, now lost in strands.
Strands of time weave fate’s cruel art,
Art of mending a shattered heart.

Heart beats slow in moon’s embrace,
Embrace the void, the empty space.
Space where echoes fade to none,
None remain, yet love is one.

Evil is a name of a foeman, as I live.
Madam, in Eden, I'm Adam.
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
A man, a plan, a canal: Panama.

Never a foot too far, even.
No, sir, away! A papaya war is on.
Step on no pets.
A Toyota's a Toyota.

She never asked him to stay.

Loving Loki was like chasing smoke—always slipping through her fingers just when she thought she had him. He would be there one night, draped over her couch with his usual smirk, spinning a dagger between his fingers. And by morning, he’d be gone, leaving only the ghost of his laughter behind.

It was a game between them. He would disappear. She would pretend not to care.

"Dramatic exits are your specialty, huh?" she teased once.

"Would you prefer I linger?" he had shot back, tilting his head.

She didn’t answer.

But then came the night he didn’t disappear. Not entirely.

That night, when she woke, groggy and reaching for water, she found something on her nightstand. A dagger—his dagger. The handle worn, the blade still warm from where he’d been holding it.

Loki never left things behind.

Her fingers ghosted over the metal. A message, a promise, unspoken.

And just like that, the rules of their game changed.

It became a habit.

When he was gone, the dagger would stay. When he was there, it would vanish from the nightstand and return to his belt. She never mentioned it. Neither did he. But every time she woke and saw it resting there, something in her chest softened.

Until one day, it didn’t return.

Days passed. Then weeks.

She told herself she didn’t care. That he had always been this way. But still, her fingers reached for the spot where it should have been. Empty.

And that was the night she finally broke the rule.

Standing at her window, looking at the stars, she whispered, “Just one more trick, please.”

As if the universe had been waiting for those words, a flicker of green shimmered in the air behind her.

"Missed me, darling?"

She turned, but this time, she didn’t tease. Didn’t joke. Instead, she closed the space between them, pressed a hand to his chest, and whispered back,

"Don’t vanish again."

For once, he didn’t.

The time you gave was precious and bright,  
In little dreams, you lit a light.  

Books that lay covered in dust,  
Now opened again with newfound trust.  

Numbers started to dance and play,  
Hearts began to dream each day.  

A short journey, just a few days,  
Yet the lessons will forever stay.  

A small lamp you chose to ignite,  
Will shine in someone’s future bright.

Beneath the velvet sky, the boy floats alone,  
A silent canoe sways, no sound, just the tone  
Of waves that whisper secrets in the night,  
As the moon casts shadows, soft and bright.  

The sea beneath him teems with life unknown,  
A dance of creatures in the depths they've grown—  
A whale’s tail flits like a shadowed dream,  
A jellyfish glows in a ghostly gleam.  

Lost in the vastness, the boy seeks his way,  
A soul adrift, a heart led astray.  
He gazes up at the heavens’ endless sea,  
Each star a whisper, each flicker a plea.  

"Where am I going? What is this plight?"  
His voice swallowed by the endless night.  
But the stars speak softly, a guide from afar,  
The light of a distant, unreachable star.  

In the silence, he calls out to the divine,  
"Are you there, God? Can your light be mine?"  
The universe, vast, yet so close to his soul,  
A light in the dark, a beacon, a goal.  

The stars flicker brighter, the sea a calm sheet,  
He feels a stillness, where heartbeats meet.  
The creatures around him, the stars up above,  
A reminder that guidance comes wrapped in love.  

And though the night feels endless and wide,  
He knows he’s not lost—he’s just on a ride.  
For even in darkness, even adrift,  
There’s a quiet voice giving him a lift.  

The boy on the canoe, with stars for his guide,  
Learns that sometimes, it’s okay to just ride.  
For in the silence, the night, and the waves,  
There’s a truth that guides him, that he’ll always crave.

Love whispers softly in the silent night,
Across the stars, where dreams take flight.
Vivid as the sunrise, bright and clear,
Everlasting, a feeling so sincere.

Your touch is the warmth in a cold, dark world,
Only you can make my heart unfurl.
Under the moon, our souls collide,
Reaching for a love we can’t hide.

The streets stretch empty,
silent but for my footsteps—
rhythmic, restless,
kicking pebbles that go nowhere,
like me.

Smoke curls from my lips,
a ghostly whisper dissolving
before it can answer
the questions I never say aloud.

The night doesn’t scare me—
I’ve made peace with shadows,
with streetlights flickering like old dreams.
But the darkness inside?
That’s a beast with my name on its tongue.

I walk faster,
as if the wind might strip me clean,
as if somewhere ahead,
there’s a version of me
who knows how to stop running.

But for now,
I take another drag,
watch the ember burn,
and keep moving.

I am still searching, lost in the silent hum,
For one who sees the world as more than just what—
Who wanders, unhurried, through the creatures' breath,
Who feels the pulse of the earth and its depth.

I seek the one who wonders at the moon’s silent gaze,
At the stars that flicker with ancient, untold ways.
A soul who listens to rivers, whose stories unfold,
In the whispers of waters, in the stories they hold.

Not just the grand, but the minute and small—
The flutter of wings, the rise and the fall.
Who sees the beauty in the dust of the earth,
And finds meaning in silence, in sorrow, in birth.

I search for the one who stands still in the crowd,
Who sees the truth in the noise, the faces unbowed.
Who feels the weight of the dark in the light,
And finds peace in the silence, in the stillness of night.

I long for a heart that knows both pain and grace,
That has touched the stars and been lost in the space.
For one who will ponder, who will never be still—
Who questions the world with a mind that can feel.

For I am not seeking a lover or friend,
But a kindred soul, whose thoughts never end.
Someone who embraces both the quiet and loud,
Who lives in the wonder, in the space between crowds.

I am still searching, with my heart in the air—
For the one who will feel, the one who will care.
The one who will wonder, who sees the divine,
In the folds of the cosmos, in the soul’s endless climb.

I saw her DP, a vision in white,
A soft glow, a smile, and the world felt light.
That loose strand of hair, falling so free,
My mind wished—If that picture was for me?

Thoughts swirling, heart skipping a beat,
She, in that dress, looked pure, complete.
Should I ask, should I dare,
What if I seem too much, too rare?

A click, a tap, my fingers freeze,
I type and delete, hoping to appease.
But then, I send it—bold, unwise,
"Could I have that picture?" I text, my heart in disguise.

A pause—my heart in overdrive,
Waiting for her reply, just to survive.
Then a message, not from her—but from a friend,
I think it's her, my hopes ascend.

But no—it’s just a message that’s sent,
And I stop, my soul almost bent.
For a moment, I lose my way,
But wait—she's typing, no more delay.

My heart races, like I can’t breathe,
What will she say, what will she leave?
And then, oh then, it’s there, so bright,
She sent the pic, my heart took flight.

The moment is mine, the thrill is real,
That picture, that smile, it’s the sweetest deal.
From hesitation to victory, all in a breath,
A rush, a win, a love at its depth.

Some rest in a lover’s trembling hands,
whispering vows too soft to last.
Some lie upon a quiet chest,
a farewell kiss from petals past.

Some twirl free in the morning breeze,
brushing the sky in fleeting flight.
Some are pressed between old pages,
holding echoes of moonlit nights.

Some are worn behind an ear,
a fragrant crown for fleeting youth.
Some are crushed beneath careless feet,
forgotten before they bloomed.

Some wilt alone, unseen, unsung,
fading into the earth once more.
Yet all have known a moment’s grace,
a touch, a tear, a love once pure.

For every petal tells a story,
each bloom a breath, a life, a chance—
and whether scattered, held, or broken,
every flower still must dance.

— 🌸

He sits on the cold pavement,
back against the world,
eyes lost in a sky too vast,
too indifferent to a boy
who once dreamed of touching it.

The cigarette flickers between his fingers,
a quiet rebellion, a silent scream.
Smoke coils like memories—
of failures, of love lost,
of roads that led nowhere.

Maybe this is all there is—
a tired soul, an empty night,
a battle no one sees.

Then, a voice—soft yet firm.
"Got a light?"

He looks up, startled.
A stranger, wrapped in the wind,
eyes carrying storms of their own.

"You look like a man
who’s been running from himself,"
the stranger says, lighting his own cigarette.
"But the thing about running—
it never gets you anywhere."

A pause. A knowing glance.
"Maybe it’s time you walked instead."

The words settle like embers in his chest.
For the first time in a long time,
he exhales without regret.

The cigarette burns,
but tonight, so does something else—
a spark, a reason.

He stands up,
dusts off the weight of yesterday,
and starts walking forward

The wind howls loud against the stone,  
A lighthouse keeper, standing alone.  
The storm rages wild, fierce, and strong,  
But in this quiet, I must belong.  

The book in my hands is my only friend,  
Pages worn thin, but I pretend  
That in its words, I’m not alone,  
That in its lines, I’ve found my home.  

Outside the waves crash and pound,  
The world is chaos, spinning around.  
But here I stand, amidst the gale,  
Holding fast, where others might fail.  

The light I guide cuts through the dark,  
A beacon of hope, a single spark.  
Yet, deep within, I long to flee,  
To find peace beyond this storm-swept sea.  

But duty calls, and I must stay,  
A keeper of light, come what may.  
The storm outside will pass, I know,  
But in my heart, the winds still blow.  

So I read, I wait, I fight alone,  
While the storm outside claims its throne.  
For the light I guard, though heavy the cost,  
I’ll stand alone, no matter the loss.

Your voice drips like golden honey,
Soft as a sunset melting into the sea.

I taste your laughter—wild berries and wine,
A melody swirling in the wind’s embrace.

Your touch is moonlight—cool and silver,
A whispered song that glows in the dark.

We speak in colors unseen,
And love in echoes unheard.

But is this truly the end?
Or just another bend?
Is this the final shore?
Or yet another door?

Perhaps the search itself is the path,
Perhaps liberation lies within the grasp,
Perhaps the answers hide within the quest,
Perhaps life itself is the greatest test.

No regrets…
about the paragraphs I sent.

I’ve long accepted that not every sentence lands gently.
Some come off too bare.
Others, far too heavy.
But I still let them go—
Maybe because I needed to hear them myself.

Each paragraph was a pause between heartbeats.
Each one…
a letter I refused to leave unwritten.

There were long texts—
some confessed I was in love.
Some whispered I’m hurt.
Others begged for clarity—
even knowing it might never come.
Some said, “I’m still trying.”
Others… “I’m giving up.”
Even when it tore something in me.

But I kept writing.
Because even silence deserves something to speak to.

Those words weren’t always meant for replies.
They weren’t written for validation.
Sometimes…
they were just a lifeline to myself.
A way to hold on
when everything else was falling apart.

And no,
I don’t regret a single one.
Because in a world where so much remains unsaid,
those paragraphs—
they were my way of healing.
My way of screaming without making a sound.
My way of remembering that I felt something.
That I tried.
That I didn’t shut down completely.

So no...
No regrets about the paragraphs I sent.
They saved me more than anyone ever will know.