The Way She Lived in Me
The Universe She Was
Once, she was everything to me
not in metaphor,
but in the way the planets truly need the sun.
Her laughter filled my chest,
like warm light circling inward.
Her eyes held quiet galaxies,
stars steady and sure,
and her smile could calm a storm
like sunlight breaking through gray skies.
Her hair shone like something the heavens envy.
Now, I only see it in memory
a golden blur when I close my eyes.
It’s strange,
how the brightest moments
are the first to disappear.

II. When We Were Whole
We walked through parks
as if they were sacred halls.
Even the trees seemed to lean in,
just to be near her.
Her hand fit mine so perfectly,
I still reach for it without thinking.
We had a dog that ran like joy itself
no fear, no doubt.
We laughed often,
like people who didn’t believe in pain.
We skipped stones across a lake,
never guessing love might follow the same path:
rise, float, skim, and fall.
Her scent was fresh rain
sweet, natural, unforgettable.
Her voice woke me with the softness of ocean waves.
Now it comes and goes,
like a dream I’m trying to hold onto.

After the End
Love was once an ocean,
and I dove into it freely.
Now I walk through something dry and empty,
where nothing remembers how to bloom.
Her name still lives in my throat,
but I keep it quiet.
I search for her
in strangers’ eyes, in passing faces
but I find only reflections of light,
never the stars she carried.
She was full of wonder.
They are just passing weather.
And when I remember her,
I feel the distance
like shouting at the moon,
knowing it can’t hear you.

Holding On and Letting Go
Sometimes I feel anger.
Why did love come at all
if it was always meant to leave?
I rage,
because being seen—truly seen—
should have been enough.
But it never is.
Still,
I am grateful.
Because once, I mattered to someone
in a way that changed me.
She helped me become
something better,
even if what remains now
is just the ruin of that.
We are not meant to walk alone.
We are meant to meet in the dark
and name it light.
She was my first light.
And now,
I walk through smoke,
hoping to find meaning in what’s left.

The Shape of Absence
There is silence
where her laugh used to echo.
Stillness
where she once moved.
Even spring feels colder now
the scent of flowers brings ache instead of joy.
I see birds take flight
and whisper,
“There she goes again.”
Some nights,
I can almost feel her smile
a soft, guiding warmth,
like a harbor after the storm.
But it always fades.
And I am left chasing wind.

What Remains
I wonder if she knew.
If she felt what I felt.
If the love that marked me
ever marked her, too.
Time moves forward,
but I find myself folding inward,
smaller with every year,
heavier with every memory.
Our dog still waits by the door sometimes.
She knows.
She remembers.
And when I ask her softly,
“Do you miss her, too?”
She doesn’t answer.
But in her stillness,
I feel the truth:
She did love us.
And in her silence,
she left a piece of herself
that will never leave.

from the outside
under the old tree
thick with time
i wait.
not sure what for.
the wind moves like a thought
no one says out loud.
soft.
close.
familiar.
but not mine.

i hear it anyway.
it tells things
you only hear
when no one's looking.
quiet truths that press into the skin
and stay there.

somewhere
kids laugh,
easy, open,
like sunlight doesn’t cost anything.
i watch.
behind the edge.
like someone half-drawn.
they belong to it.
i don’t.

i stand still
in a world that moves
without checking
if i’m coming.
they bloom
and i stay seed.
they fill the air
i hold the space
they forget.

i was the one chasing birds
while they made games out of dirt and sky.
i went where the path stopped.
i liked the quiet places
because they didn’t ask me questions.
the forest didn’t mind
if i said nothing.

the stars blinked like answers
that didn’t need to explain themselves.
i liked that.
the trees bent like they were listening.
that meant something.
but still,
this feeling follows me
like fog
just enough to blur things.

i want what they have
the touch
the motion
the easy belonging.
i want to matter
in someone else’s
ordinary day.

but nature
you don’t ask for anything.
you just are.
and maybe with you,
i can just be too.
not too much.
not too little.
just here.

still,
i find myself on the outside.
looking in.
a quiet figure
by the water’s edge.
and i wonder
not loudly,
but real enough
why i always wake up
in someone else’s dream.

the brain’s a butcher
slicing futures
before they breathe.

I stood
on the edge
measuring wind,
timing possibilities
til courage turned to doubt.

but the scream inside me
it didn’t care
about logic
maps
or bruises.

it wanted fall.
it wanted now.

so I shut the noise.
I leapt.

and in the wreckless air
found
I could burn
without dying.

found
the unknown
had teeth
but smiled.

In the unknown
I found
comfort.

Somewhere
beneath the eyelid's last blink
where glass bleeds light,
and truth flinches like a rat in church,
a Psalm shatters,
cracking the spine of silence.

I saw God’s silhouette in reverse
a negative burn,
its arms were questions,
its eyes were hollows,
and its scream—a flicker in dead film.

Tell me
what’s a universe if not
a deaf match struck in a snowstorm?

I licked the ash of a star once.
It tasted like birth
and every lover who ever left without closing the door.

Time taps its nails on bone
tick. tick. tick.
Each second a parasite,
sipping marrow,
etching the shape of forgetting
on my skull.

No map.
No north.
Only echoes whispering:
“you were never here.”

Even solace is a trick
a ghost draped in perfume and mother’s hands,
gone when you turn to name it.

I broke a clock to stop the wound.
(It laughed.)

Now
I collect shadows.
I press them between pages of not-quite-meaning,
each a brittle wing.

Is this God?
—a hum in the static,
—a fault line in grammar,
—a riddle whispered backwards
through the teeth of a dying flame?

Listen:
There is a drone inside the ordinary.
It gnaws.
Not loud
but certain.

You want reason?
You want rules?

Here’s the cipher:
There is none.
Only this:

A flicker. A fracture. A fall.
Then something unnamed
that feels like knowing.

But isn’t.

Don’t whisper in dried-out dirges
that all this flickering
is hollow.
That dreams are ash,
and flesh is just a waiting cell.

The soul, if such a beast still gnaws,
rots deeper when left numb
Not all walls are built to hold,
not all truths are what they hum.

Life isn’t real
it just feels like it might be
when the pain bites clean.
But the grave isn’t the goal.
It’s the breath before it,
the silence
we dance inside,
pretending it speaks.

Dust-to-dust, sure.
But the soul?
It breaks different
like glass remembering light,
or a scream you swallowed
and called prayer.

You weren’t born to smile or weep,
no.
You were shaped to move
to mark some subtle shift in the void,
to fall forward
even when crawling.

Art lasts.
But time
time is a thief in velvet boots,
slitting courage open,
while your heart
marches a funeral beat,
wearing someone else’s armor.

The world is war.
Not guns and medals
but breath,
betrayal,
mornings.
Don’t herd with the hollow-eyed
be the chaos they never saw coming.
Be your own myth.

Don’t flirt with futures dressed in silk—
don’t mourn the past’s carcass.
It’s gone.
Rotting in memory’s echo chamber.

Breathe the now
tear it open.
Live like the ceiling leaks God.
And you're standing beneath it,
cup in hand.

Heroes die.
But their noise lingers
a footprint, maybe,
that the lost will find.
Or a wound
someone else mistakes for a map.

So rise
or crawl
or scream in motion.
Whatever fits.
Just don’t stop.

Let fate break its teeth
on your persistence.
Let patience sharpen you
and
Perseverance your
motto.

Because this isn’t just a dream
it’s a riddle
with blood on its lips
or
A dream caught in a
dream.

Who crept like rot through heaven’s door,
and stole the glow the moon once wore?
Who plucked the stars from velvet sky
left them bleeding, left them dry?

The silver cradle, cracked and gone,
no lull of light to lean upon.
The hush was thick, the dark was near,
no whisper far, no breath to hear.

The thief wore night like skin too tight,
and swallowed whole the edge of light.
They tore the seams of stitched-up flame,
and left the void without a name.

No song rose in midnights might, no gull took air nor mid nor flight,
just darkened ash where stars once sang and they left a empty pang.
A hush so loud it screamed through bone
a silence that devoured every tone.

Each shimmer, ripped from sky like thread,
each hymn of dusk now choked by the dead.
The frost clung hard to every vein,
no thaw, no sun, just gnawing pain.

No lark to stir the wounded sun,
no sparrow’s cry, no morning run.
Just echoes in a frost-bit field,
where once the warmth of wonder kneeled.

Who dared defile that sacred dome?
Who stripped the stars and fled their home?
No name, no footstep, no retreat
just wreckage left beneath their feet.

The world, a husk of breathless stone,
no glow, no grace, just gristle, bone.
The moon—unhooked, her bed grown cold,
her stories lost, her silence bold.

What worth this world, this wasted tomb?
Where shadows bloom and roses gloom.
Where joy once dared to dance with art
they tore the night, they stole my heart.

I curse their hands, their silent ****,
their artless theft, their frozen will.
They’ve burned the night, they’ve bled the skies,
and left me here with hollow eyes.

No songs remain, no light, no flame,
no clouds with thought, no breath, no name.
Just endless dark and hope’s last cry,
where dreams lay down their wings to die.

The thief has fled with heaven’s heat,
and left my soul in scorched defeat,
But still I stand with yonders stare,
Nothing left but darkness bare.

Square breathes ash
gaslight’s twitch,
flickering truth
in a puddle of pitch.

He croaks.
"Come buy, come bite"
His tongue a hook,
his grin not right.

Crow gathers.
Eyes rusted shut.
Morals on mute.
Hope? Cut.

Meat swings
arms of the disappeared,
femurs of the faithful
nothing’s sacred here.

Prices sing:
A thigh for a thrill,
A pence for the tongue
that once whispered, still.

Butcher’s plate shines,
not silver—just red,
a pile of love
now splendidly dead.

"Step in! Step up! It’s holy, it’s hot!"
He laughs in cleavers,
bones in a knot.
His fingers glide ribs
like memory lost
No guilt. No name.
Just meat and cost.

These veins once ran
with lullabies.
Now they pulse
in motherless cries.

Who spun the blood
into life’s first thread?
Gone now.
Unwoven.
Unsaid.

Eyes
once torches,
now jars of fog.
Dreams rot faster
in this catalogue.

And still it hums
the stall, the street,
with coins that clink
and boots that beat.
Souls
unstitched
in stalls of shame,
each cut a prayer
without a name.

The heart
oh God, that fragile crime
now skewered,
oozing
beet-red rhyme.

It once held hymns.
It once held grace.
Now it sells for less
than a hollow face.

What’s beauty?
What’s form?
What’s breath to a knife?
What’s hunger but theft
disguised as life?

Reverence? Gone.
Devotion? Flayed.
The altar’s now
a butcher’s blade.

No psalms.
No sacred lull.
Only meat,
and the market’s pull.

He sings decay
a hymn of ache,
as crowds buy flesh
and morals break.

The stars won’t blink.
They’ve seen this play.
Where bones are stock,
and gods decay.

Hooks sway like ghosts
in post-mortem sleep
no tears for the sold,
no cries for the keep.

We sell,
we chew,
we grin,
we choke
on the sins we bought
but never spoke.