I wrote a letter to an old poet.
The paper: stained,
the pen: dry.
Then “Time stopped,” as the poet would say,
and often I find myself convinced by the claim.

I stare at the parchment,
at a loss for what to write—
letters jumbled
into half-made sentences,
with words that have no provenance.

It was moonlight when I started.
Now it’s day, and I stare
out the window.
I realize now—it was love we shared.
But the poet I knew is long gone.
His voice: an echo in my mind.
His poems—nothing but a mere song of his thoughts.
Words
that then were just momentary.

I recall him sitting in this very place,
writing until his pen
spilled ink all over the desk.
My gaze lingers on the stains that remain—
even the table can’t forget his trace.

I try to find it in myself
to forget him,
to forgive him
for tangling me in his mess.
To dust off the remains of his presence.

I find myself staring at the parchment once more,
and for the first time, I realize he had cursed me—
leaving me with his poetry behind.
Now all I write is but a shadow of him,
his voice stuck in the back of my mind.
And perhaps that was the cruelest thing he had done:
leaving me to bleed on parchment,
to be a mere trace—to fade.

Sometimes ا miss the feeling of peace just to realize I never felt it not entirely anyway;
I crave it. You know how you just get this urge
This sudden want of something you haven’t even been thinking about
Fantasize about something so surreal to your mind
Then feel ashamed
How could anyone like me deserve to even dream about it
And it will stay this way
The longing the want just to feel an ounce of calm
It will stay out of reach , but just close enough to taunt me the rest of my life .

It flew away.
I stood there, helpless—awfully aware
Of how close I was to the edge of despair.
I watched the wind steal the thread
I had held onto for so long with my bare hands.

My eyes darted across the scene,
The red thread dancing with the wind.
I turned,
Tried to catch it,
Or at least follow its traces
To find what I did wrong—

Only to see the ground crack beneath me.
The once peaceful house,
Burnt to ash.
Windows broken,
Wood burning,
Smoke rising—
Damage that can’t be restored.

Memories escape
With every last breath the house takes,
With every curl of smoke, every scattered trace.

It flew away—
The last bit of hope I had.
All I owned, burnt to ash.
The dreams I had now seem so small.
I lost myself
In the name of saving what I love..
But was it ever mine to hold?
-s

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am weathered. I am worn.
I am stuffed with seeping sadness, and stewed in sticky, seething scorn.

I am deflated. Thoughts debunked.
And I am drowned in desperate dread.  
When I soak my roots in water, I find it dries them out instead.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am wilted. I am worn.

Flying through the abyss,
Nothing but darkness.
Everything wilted—
Not even eyes glow with fondness.

A dark hue in the air,
An aroma thick as musk.
This odyssey has left me stuck—
In thought, in place.

This land where even stars don’t fall,
The moon swallowed by a thought long gone.
These nights where no light is found,
Where heartbeats are not meant—
Is where I’m most content.
—s

Everyone I’ve ever loved
Is somewhere in my heart locked away
Parts of them scattered and mixed with my blood
Running through every part of by body
To my brain
Reflections of their persona escape as i speak
I’m everyone I’ve ever loved , that is me

Everything happens just so we can feel
And when we lose that
We lose everything
Because that is what humans are made of
Emotion
When we are deprived of that
we are nothing.
We are nothing but melancholic spirits
Translating our own sorrow into poetry
Our own pain into art.