To shine so bright, the soul does weep,  
A mirror held, too sharp, too deep.  
The bloom of grace can bruise the stem, Who saves the savior, or carries them?  

Not sins that haunt, but good unspoken, The heart grows tired, though never broken. To act so true, the echoes stay, And virtue's cost, we still repay.

The rarest gem will guard your shine.  
The truest love will ease your ache.  
The steadfast friend will mend your heart. Beyond these bounds, let silence speak.  

Do not chase shadows, stay or part.  
Be firm in grace, or let it go.  
The certain heart shall never stray.  
The doubtful one is not your home.

I am proud of the scar,
the stumble,
the body that taught me truth.

I do not polish myself
for anyone’s mirror.

No flattery leaves my tongue,
no false comfort from my hands.

I walk as I am
unbent,
unfinished,
unashamed.

I just want yesterday.
Did not I cry your name
on your naked *******,
did not I swear my love
between the tremor of your skin?

How many times
do you remember?

I just want yesterday,
when my soul was dancing
with your love,
when the night itself
was softer than your breath.

But today,
you are not my problem anymore,
not my burden,
not my ache to carry through sleepless nights.

Words I never thought
I would write,
never thought I would taste
on my own tongue
yet here they are,
cut clean across the page.

Thank you
for proving me wrong
one last time.

Yesterday was yours.
Tomorrow is mine.

She is not just pizza, she is Persephone on dough, fig-dark sweetness pressed from autumn’s womb, spread across the earth like a secret hymn.

Her shallots burn like dusk in the underworld, their caramel fire licking at the edges, a hunger that stings as it seduces.

Mozzarella  
the pale moons of her *******  soft, molten, surrendering under heat.
Fontina, the molten gold of her laughter, binding every element into delirium.

Out of the oven she rises, clothed only in veils of prosciutto thin silk of salt and surrender. Then arugula rains down, green fire, wild meadow,
a crown of pepper on her head.

She is feast, she is goddess,
she is the altar and the appetite,
the sweetness of figs,
the bite of arugula,
the yielding heat of molten flesh.

That is how you like your woman:
a sacred hunger,
a myth you devour,
a body both temple and banquet.

If success crowns you with arrogance,
its jewels are glass, not gold.
True triumph bends the head in thanks, not lifts the nose in scorn.

If failure kindles deeper fire,
then it was no failure at all.
For the soul that rises from the ashes
has never truly fallen.

Sound the horn between our ribs,
let the skin split like banners in wind.
Your mouth is a blade, my tongue a spear, and every kiss is a clash of steel.

We charge, not across fields, but across sheets, drums pounding in our veins, armor shed, shields burned.

My hands grip your hips like soldiers clenching their last flag. I will not surrender.

Your nails carve into my back,
war-paint of blood and salt,
a map of victories.

We shout without words, a battle cry rising from throat to spine, breaking the silence like fire breaks night.
Every ****** a cannon,
every gasp a trumpet,
every cry a sword raised to the heavens.

And when we fall spent, conquered, breathless on the ground of each other’s chests, the war is not over.
It only waits, ready to rise again at the first whisper of your lips.