I pity those who’ve never seen her smile—
For that brief eclipse makes time bow in silence.

I pity those who’ve not glimpsed her eyes,
For within them, a thousand journeys whisper their names.

But when her eyes close—
Even stars forget how to shine.

I pity those who’ve never watched her dance—
For in her steps, one might lose their own story,
Caught in a rhythm that belongs to no one.

I pity those who’ve never felt her ire—
For her anger carves new constellations into the sky,
A flame too holy to extinguish.

I pity those who’ve not held her hand,
For in her touch, she cradles both heaven and earth—
And still, she wonders what it means to be grounded.

And those who’ve never known her love?
Even angels weep at what they cannot claim.

She walks among mortals, unaware
That even angels must one day go home.

But if she’s lost, who am I
To pretend I’ll ever find her

She does not like the Sun,
Perhaps because she’s made of ice.
I loathe it when it scorches her,
So I seize its heat in my fists
Until she is content.

She adores the Moon,
Maybe because its calm embraces her.
I hate it when it wanes,
So I hold it full and bright
Until her smile returns.

She loves the rain,
Perhaps for how its droplets
Play upon her hair.
I curse it when it ceases,
So I shake the clouds
Until she starts to dance.

She relishes the wind,
Maybe because it soothes her spirit.
I dread it when it falters,
So I stir the world to keep it moving
Until she drifts to sleep.

She cherishes the song of birds,
Perhaps because it lulls her gently.
I shiver when their song fades,
So I summon melodies
Until she finds her rest.

She prefers it when I’m not around,
Perhaps because I delight in her annoyance.
Yet I despise her tears,
So I entrap myself in her illusions
Until she breaks me free.

Reason for my love, the question many ask,

It may be the heart, not the one that pumps blood,
But the heart she crafted and taught how to love.

It may be the smile, a smile never learned,
So she taught it to the heart she created.

It may be the bond that never existed,
So she bound it to the heart she made, becoming the anchor herself.

It may be the dream that never took flight,
So she showed it to the heart she formed.

It may be the reason that never emerged,
So she created one and gifted it to the heart she designed.

It may be the heart she stole,
And kept alive, the same one she forged.

It may be the rhythm that never found its way,
Thus she made it beat in time with hers.

So is the reason I love, though whose, I don’t remember.

She told me not to get a cat,
But I couldn’t resist the tiny thing—
That soft, commanding little meow,
Giving orders like a queen.

Her paws dug gently into my chest,
And I couldn’t bear to set her down.
Her voice turned my quiet place
Into a home with every sound.

She clung to me, never letting go,
Until she fell asleep, her breath so light.
The question came—our princess needs a name—
I asked her, she laughed and said I couldn't care right.

Still, a smile broke through,
As she named her Bella, and the little one seemed pleased.
Now Bella ruled my heart,
Alongside the one who gave her name with ease.

But alas, I couldn't care enough,
And I cried when Bella breathed no more.
Broken, something precious lost,
Yet she told me Bella would live as long as she’s remembered.

Now I tell stories to her tiny grave,
Keeping her alive in every word I say.

They told me the Moon is beautiful,
But I didn’t believe, and now they force me to look.

I fixed my gaze on that which they claim is most beautiful.

Confused, I turned back to them: “Why do you say it is beautiful?”

“Why not?” they asked.

Smiling, I answered, “How can something be pretty
If it doesn’t have eyes like hers, eyes that are an eternal prison to me?

How can it be beautiful if it lacks her smile,
A smile so radiant I forget my name every time I see it?

How can it be beautiful if it doesn’t resemble her?”

Laughing, they asked, “What does she look like?”

Smiling, I replied, “I do not remember.”

Several stood around the man, old and disfigured,
Who was resisting the embrace of death.

Curious, I inquired of someone:

The man had made a promise,
As ancient as his withered body.

To die only by the hand of the Right Person.
Many came, seeking to learn the name of this person.

Yet the man couldn’t—or wouldn’t—remember.
Thus he endured agony, refusing to accept
Death’s merciful gift.

He bled, his skin rotting,
His hair falling, blood congealed; still, he refused
To embrace death’s release.

Those who cared wept, those who loved pleaded,
Begging him to surrender. For the Right Person
Might never come, or could forget the promise made.

I watched this for a long time and decided to commit the sin.
Now I deliver the gift, by gently strangling him to sleep.

There was once a time when the world was not gray.
When Joy and I were friends.

But now he’s become a nemesis
As a new companion holds my hand–
Whom the world calls Sorrow.

We walk together; he grasps my hand always.
Yet a dagger struck, piercing my friend Sorrow.

The world brightened a little, and I looked in surprise.
Soon another dagger found its mark.

The world grew brighter still, and I tried to pull the dagger
From the chest of my friend named Sorrow.

But someone took my hand; I looked and saw
That Joy was holding it once more.

Then a few more daggers came, piercing Sorrow again.
I looked at the faces—some were friends, one was mother,
And the last I don't remember.