They stalk through the night,
little agents of chaos,
silent as breath between dreams.
Fierce in their own rights,
they pad on soundless paws,
ghosts in the lamplight’s edge.

With eyes like shattered moons
they leap to perilous heights,
defying gravity and sense,
sliding through impossible gaps
with liquid grace,
fur brushing past the world unnoticed.

Fangs flash like whispered warnings,
claws unsheathed in silence —
a blur, a hiss, a sting,
quick as lightning’s tongue.
They draw red lines with no regret,
then vanish
into shadows they conjure.

Hunters of motion, stalkers of toes,
they wait with stillness honed by ages,
then pounce —
from curtains, counters, corners —
seemingly from nowhere.
Phantoms of domestic life,
they bring terror to feathered toys
and unguarded ankles alike.

But even chaos must rest.
They curl among their chosen kin,
nests of warmth and woven limbs.
Then, as if reborn from war,
they trill and chirrup,
announce their presence proudly,
small furry rattletraps
full of purrs and head-butts,
nudging for the next pet,
the next proof of love.

They are contradiction,
elegant menace,
sweet tyrants of the hearth —
keepers of the quiet hours
and rulers of our hearts.

A Hole in My Heart
for the one who breathes and hopes

There’s a hole in my heart, black as night,
A silent void where warmth once lived.
It echoes with the chill of absence,
A hollow that no light forgives.

I read of love in gilded pages,
Of fire, of longing, of sweet delight.
But the spark eludes my weathered soul,
A candle lost to endless night.

I watch them laugh, I hear them flirt,
Their hearts in bloom, their glances dance.
And mine—so quiet, so unsure—
Feels left outside the world of chance.

For I have loved, and I have shattered,
Been burnt, been bruised, been torn apart.
But still I rise, a scarred survivor,
Still breathing with a hopeful heart.

Dum spiro, spero—so I whisper,
A sacred phrase, my soul’s refrain.
Though decades carve their lines upon me,
That thread of hope has not grown vain.

Yet still the hollow aches and deepens,
A yearning vast, a haunting call—
To feel again that molten fever,
To stand, to leap, to risk it all.

But maybe love returns in silence,
In steady eyes and quiet flame—
Not wild as once, but ever truer,
Not seeking glory, but a name.

So I will wait, and I will wonder,
And tend the fire with gentle art.
For while I breathe, I do not falter—
Though there’s a hole, there beats a heart.

I not only feel your love each day,
I carry it—stitched into my mind.
I see it when I close my eyes:
your smile,
your hands in mine.
In my darkest hours,
I find your face—
joy written in every line.

Our hands meet,
foreheads rest,
your head against my chest.
I breathe deep—
calm settles
like a hush across my storm.
The world bends around us,
light and sound yielding
to the soft pulse
of our shared breath.

Our love—simple,
but with depths
unfathomable.
We’ve not touched the bottom yet.

We lie beneath
the gentlest blue light,
whispering secrets,
fears,
and pain,
watched by a congregation
of childlike toys—
reminders to stay,
to be.
Our hearts laid bare
in this sacred space,
transcending the world outside.

We love in the quiet ways—
in farmers markets,
in trinkets,
in held space.
An unconditional bond
born from pain,
from grief,
from survival.
We are stitched together
with coffee,
tea,
travel,
stuffed animals,
and shared scars.

Our love has endured
calamity and confusion,
yet we remain—
celebrating,
growing,
thriving.
It is our spine—
the strength we built,
the bond we chose.

I feel it
when my soul cries out.
Your smile—sunlight
chasing shadow,
your hands—lifting,
holding,
soothing the sobs
that silence me.

Even apart,
our love continues the story.
A thread between hearts—
unbroken,
unseen,
but always there.

When I was young, someday was forever —
a tunnel so long I couldn’t see the light,
let alone the end.

As I grew older, it became a memory: someday,
someday I would, if I could.
A fading echo as I began to live, to love —
then loss came, and someday became a dream.

Like the shadow of a mountain, someday
was etched behind my eyes.
There was a plan, an idea, a hope:
someday I would, if I could.

These days, someday feels so far from me —
like the memory of a crisp apple on the tongue:
its sweetness burned in,
but hard to speak aloud.

Someday — would I? Could I?
What does the future hold?
Will I ever find that someday?

Or — more deeply —
is this my new someday?
An image I could never have imagined
without the life, the love, the loss?

What is someday?
A dream,
a regret,
an illusion —
or a seed, still buried,
waiting to bloom?

Life is pain.
That’s what they say.
Pain—
physical, emotional, mental—
it touches everyone.
So mine is not unique,
I would say.
Pain is life.
Life is pain.

But endless pain—
that is a different animal.
It never stops.
It slinks beside you,
sleeps in your bones,
a feral thing
slithering through your soul,
feeding on your light.

It steals.
Dreams.
Desires.
Hope.
You begin to speak
of the Time Before Pain
like a lost country—
a utopia
you once called home.

Now the present is war.
Every day a siege,
every hour
a whisper of resistance:
beat it
conquer it
survive it.

This pain lives off you.
It eats your basics,
hollows your core.
You stop wanting love.
You stop wanting wealth.
You want one thing only:
the cessation of pain.

And the future?
A fog, a flicker—
maybe there,
a life beyond this.
But now—
now, pain fills you,
poisoning your soul
against the fragile thread of hope.

It fills you
with anger,
with emptiness,
with a raw and aching need—
the need
for someone
to see you.

To see beyond
the red, raging storm,
past the mask,
into the trembling self
still curled
in the heart of it all—
and simply
see
you.

YOU.
I see you—
like a field of flowers, each blooming in your own way.
All individuals. All so unique. All so vibrant.

I know times are dark.
The shade of fear and hatred
spreads shadows across our wondrous gardens.
But still—you shine.
Enby, trans, queer—the names are many,
for we contain multitudes.

I see YOU.
Yes, you.
I see how brightly you shine, even when life tries to dim you.
When the dark specter of depression clouds your vision.
When your mind flashes from thought to thought,
never resting, always racing.
When pain rolls and thunders through your body—
I still see you.

I see YOU.
You are timeless.
Your strength is your authenticity.
I see how you become your true self.
How you hold space.
How you carry one another through the dark,
your light bringing joy, warmth, love.
You bring all that into my life.

I see YOU.
Even you—the ones who feel forgotten.
The flowers I see carry bruises.
Some spring back quickly. Some take time.
Burdens weigh down your petals—
but the rain of shared tears,
the sunlight of being seen,
restores your bloom.

I see YOU.
All of you—
your joy,
your pain,
your warmth,
your struggle.

You are flowers—
some forged of steel,
some radiant as the sun,
but all blooming,
still here,
still seen.