What peace exists at the bottom of an empty bottle?

The torment of the mind only silenced,

quietly growing,

pressing against the walls you built.

I'm still tracing the outline of what we were,

still searching for myself in the wreckage of us.

I once made a home in your sorrow,

and now, without it,

I don't know where I belong.

In dreams, I bear your sorrow, grasping for the

moments you escape your demons.

Release me from this endless ache—

find the strength to let go.

My soul will not rest

until you are at peace.

I wait for you still,

hoping you can heal enough

to set me free, and rise beyond the grip of this

endless night.


Time slipped away as I watched you spiral,

and I needed to reach you, to speak, to be heard

but you were only there in fragments—

the version of you clouded by liquor,

a hollowed shell, shrinking deeper into your

shame.

You pushed me away,

the distance growing,

until I became a stranger.

You left me no choice,

no escape but to walk away.

You gave me only one option:

leave, or be consumed

by the slow, painful erosion of you.

Now the cuts
have faded to pale seams,
from the girl
who left her key on the counter,
and took the why with her,
and the friend
you hadn’t seen in years
but still called brother,
his last painting
hanging quiet on a wall,
the room no longer yours.

like the ghost of an old song,
still in key
you rise again
fingernails dark with soil,
burying sunflower seeds
in morning’s cold fog.

The dog needs feeding.
There’s toast to burn,
and leaves to steep.
You carry your small life
like a cracked bowl
that still holds water.

After years bent in ritual hunger,
knees pressed to rock,
tongue dry from vow,
nights lit like altars,
no revelation came.
No divine telegram.
No trumpet of truth,
just the kitchen humming
and the silence after the call.

Only the widow neighbor,
waving through fogged glass.
Only the pipes in the wall
clunking like an old lung.
Only the light
barging in
without your consent.

You believe in coats
with missing buttons,
safety pins where zippers gave,
old threads that never matched
but held anyway.
You forgive the past
not because it asked
but because you need the room.

It builds in your bones
like wind in an empty house,
constant, uninvited,
and full of old names.
Like a tune half-remembered,
only the hum
remains.

Our memories are our secret,

only we can navigate their corridors,

only we bear the weight

of love that devoured and pain unspeakable.

We know the agony of unravelling two souls,

once certain they'd found home,

only to carve a void,

grasping at fragments too broken to mend.



The void remains…

I needed you to love me,

more than the numbness you drowned in.

I thought if I could piece you together,

I might somehow make myself whole.

But it was you who broke the chains,

that bound us,

pleading for my freedom,

as if I had ever wanted to be free.

Yet you never truly left, did you?



How can I grasp joy

when your absence lingers like a breath I can't

release?

Perhaps my soul remains entangled

in the silhouette of yours.

I am rich with reason to smile,

For I became the shape of your longing, moulded

my life into what you dreamt for me.

But love is never selfish,

So now I carry the weight of what was broken,

the ghost of what we almost had,

knowing love was never meant to be won,

only given, only lost.

. (Mythology Re-Imagined As Fairy-Tale & Deconstructed) .

No one recalls when he arrived.
He was already there, in the corners of high rooms.
Carried in on wind or instinct.
Too composed to belong, too still to be ignored.

He wasn't from the sea, though he stared at it often.
Stared like a man who missed something he never touched.
He lived above things—above feeling, above endings.
He wore distance like other men wear charm.

And she—well.
She wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

---

They said she’d been sealed beneath water before time had a name.
Not drowned. Not sleeping.
Just paused.

A beauty left half-sketched.
A song trapped on the bridge, never reaching the chorus.
She existed in the almost.
The kind of presence that ruins men who believe in silence.

No one put her there.
But something had.
Something old and silver-lipped, a clockmaker with no face.

---

When he found out, he didn’t shout.
Didn’t storm.
Storms are for men who want to be heard.

He simply started unmaking himself.

Small things, at first:

Giving away secrets he never told.

Letting starlight fall from his shoulders like ash.

Standing in rooms long enough for people to forget he was tall.

Eventually, he gave away the last thing he had—
the part of him that never wanted anything.

And that was enough.

---

She came back like foam curling over marble.
Not as a lover. Not as a reward.
As weather.

She passed him by.

Looked at the space he’d vacated inside himself
and nodded, as if to say: “Yes. That will do.”

---

After that, things changed.

She walked through the city like someone who could end it.
Touched doorframes and left them trembling.
Spoke only when the sentence would shatter something.

He, on the other hand,
was seen less and less.
Not gone—just thinned out, like smoke after a gunshot.

---

Some say he became the silence in her laugh.
Others claim he left, unfinished, like a poem crumpled in a lover’s pocket.
No one’s sure.

But if you ask the sea just right—
after midnight, after mirrors—
you’ll hear it whisper:

“He let go of the sky, so she could walk through it.”

{fin}

There's a pail
just over there.
Yesterday it was brimming
with things unwanted.
I empty it every morning
and it's always full again
by the time the sun sets.

A fail pail,
a ****-it bucket.

A sacred place
to where I send
all my unwelcome thoughts.
Every drip of them.
I wring out my brain
and watch the colors
slip between my fingers.

I watch the things unwanted,
I watch them puddle and fill and swirl and mix and stain and fight and **** and claim and dry and crack and steep and warm and cool and dance alllllllll together. They dance all together now, bouncing off the walls of
                                                           that pail.

Just over there.

I can always see it. Always.

Always in the periphery. Never out of my sight. I need it near me every day and all **** night. Just in case I wake from sleep thinking something that I don't want to think so I can send it off to join the rest of the misbegotten children spawned by my head.

You urged me to leave, to fly,

to conquer this life.

But my wings feel heavy,

a descent into the raw, relentless pain

of a love that both shaped us and shattered us,

leaving wounds that time only deepens.



Music is stained by you,

you’re woven into every note,

recalling to me both what you gave

and what you took away.

Your pain bleeds through every lyric,

questioning me,

forcing me to question myself:

Is it my memory that chains you to the dark?

When will songs ever lose your echo?



I hope you found peace in my songs for you.

And they make your soul rest,

like it did in my arms.

My love falling around you

like a perfect harmony,

a warm melody that lingers,

but that failed to heal.