From birth, a woman dressed in dreams,
awaiting the man
whose touch would discover her hidden notebook,
whose fingers would wander her pages,
fondling each line with tender curiosity.

At last, love arrived
but only for a brief embrace:
not long enough to quench her hunger,
not enough to wipe the dust
from her waiting scroll.

Now the night holds her confessions,
her moans of longing folded into the dark,
her body whispering its ache
to the silence between the stars.

O night, will you grant me peace tonight,
or must I pray the sun never rises?

Not a girl
but a woman,
where flowers burn,
where chocolate melts
into velvet dreams.

A woman
that is what I knew,
her secret pages
calling my fingers to scroll,
each word a hidden chamber,
each sigh a locked door.

Hiding mysteries,
she is the one I ache for,
the one my longing
chants its name to.

May carry truth or deception,
but silence alone keeps the truth untouched
The truth is untouched.

Eyes meet, shadows speak,  
questions coil in tender air,  
truth hides, sharp, unknown.  
Our silence—both wound and balm,  
bridging what we fear to say.

Stop and hold your breath, rewrite longing on my chest, dreams carved in stillness.

You, the ink, my final draft
a script where love writes itself.

We met at the chambers
at the chambers, at the chambers,
where crystal holds fire,
where golden drink forgets the hour.

We spoke in riddles,
we spoke in circles,
of law and of madness,
of prophecy dressed as love.

We agreed not to agree,
we agreed not to agree,
and our pride rose high,
like twin banners in the hush of night.

Wine loosened the floor,
wine loosened the floor,
and tipsy, tipsy,
we danced as if bound by a spell.

Then your voice became flame,
flame upon flame,
and you begged me
touch, touch,
turn the secret page,
scroll the hidden script of your soul.

I answered, Madam,
listen, listen,

I am the witch’s son.
My sins are shadows,
only shadows,
that breathe against your spirit,
that whisper, whisper,
to awaken your fire.

They rise, they kindle,
they bend you toward blaze,
and when your heart burns too brightly,
I quench, I quench
as the blacksmith quenches steel
in the midnight water.

So I am done,
done, done.
And you
undone,
undone,
forever in the spell.

I said, "See you next time."
And the next time came.

She sat far away
with a drink in her hand.

"I hate cheese," she said.

Fifty-five, a weathered soul, adrift,
No hearth to warm, no loving gift.
A silent ache, a lonely sigh,
Where gentle hands once warmed the eye.

Thirty-five years, a fleeting dream,
Of hopes and joys, a whispered gleam.
A family's promise, softly spun,
Now scattered fragments, lost, undone.

The windswept past, a whispered plea,
Passengers gone, eternally.
A life's ambition, now a tear,
A barren landscape, filled with fear.

The warmth of love, a distant star,
A vacant chair, a silent scar.
The hands that built, now cold and bare,
A weary heart, beyond compare.

No comforting embrace, no loving hand,
Just echoes of a life unplanned.
A journey's end, a silent plea,
For solace found, eternally.