More than the breath of a sigh —
I shut the front door, draw the curtains of my eyes,
turning toward a long prayer, and hoping for a sign.
I sign my name on a sigh, to dot myself in doubts;
quietly trying to align the stanzas of my life onto
these right lines.

For someone's booming voice rising in prayer;
you lift yourself as a public speaker, while I hide
my own voice in a speaker box, in the back of my car —
playing the music of these dreams only you can hear.

While the sunlight sinks into my skin, inhabiting me
like a parable. I live inside the story of another mystery,
a hidden teaching I pray I’m not just listening to, but also
one I'm slowly becoming.

We are creatures chasing the simplest endeavours —
where lovers fuse together when they find their spark,
to blow a fuse when nerves are frayed, and ride the same
fuse that carries a car forward; an engine humming with fire.

To love more than skin and bones,
to write the story of our lives — immense enough
to bring me to tears, where the full plotline goes unseen,
yet I pray to God I can at least follow all my lines.

And in all of it, this is a feeling of being alive.

Putting my shoes on backwards — stepping straight back
to the past, searching for another path; where the fisherman
never loses hope of reeling in something worth keeping.
Another catch…fishing, baiting, catching on hope’s lines.
We filled each other’s hearts with perfect laughs, ran side
by side on the marathoner’s road — but I never thought
love would be the trickiest mile.

Hey — whatever happened to that silly boy who swore he
loved all of your vibrations, the ringtone that made him dance
whenever you called his name? He smiled in group photos
with friends he didn’t like anyway — if it meant he could
fit into your picture, He’d frame his discomfort and pose.
He’d stand in the rain just to give you a sunny day.

He wore casual smiles to match every conversation, he played
your superman in shorts, his confidence a little short too; fogging
his own glasses with the breath of your words. We stood so close
the air between us could have been a kiss, but we stayed as friends,
our thoughts and hopes sealed under the covers of  “what if.”
But we dressed our hearts in dreams of maybe — perfect lovers
undercover, hiding in plain sight because losing each other
would hurt more than never trying.

There’s a spark between your lips, and it lights mine
when we kiss— we’re a match: fighting against all
the ways we’ve tried to smother what we feel.
As the sun cuts through me, kissing my skin in
gold— but my tears taste like wine, and my hopes
lounge in the soft armchairs of dreams.

Now, I hate the silence when I’m left with myself—
scrolling through ghosts in my phone, each message
once charging me like a battery cell.

Now it’s just me, trapped in a cold heart's prison cell,
echoing for company, thinking of the days I was once
drowning  in a well. But all there’s left to say is a bitter,
shrugged,

                “Oh well.”

Dear IS,

Is it fair you hold the key to my drive— to make something, yet
make it too frightening to try? Your breath pretends to drift slow
in my ear, but beneath it, you’re clearing the field, planting seeds
of every fear you know will take root.

Is it the power lines I see wired from me to you— feeding your
hands as you siphon my strength, splitting my will from the things
I keep tucked deep in the vault of myself? As you arrange them like
weapons, calling each by name to remind me of the parts I’ve tried
to love but sometimes can’t.

Is it the way I urge, wish, and will to act— only for you to spool film
from my past, running old scenes like warnings until my courage
caves to your script? Your message is seen: as nothing moves unless
you approve.

Is that you, who rests on my chest like a stone, chastising, shrinking
me to the size of my doubts— small flaws made giant, slippery
floors of thought that tilt more than they ever should? Well… not
anymore. You don’t get to rule me, or write my rules.

Goodbye, Insecurity—as if I could ever feel secure in you.

Yours,
faithfully unfaithful,

Ex-companion.

Dear SD,

You’re always like an SD card slotting into my time with your own
version of memories – overwriting the good ones; rewriting the rest
until they feel like yours. You always chipping in at the worst
moments – slipping in like a thief of thought, leaving me as hollow
as an empty crisp packet. You’ve mastered the art of inaction –
teaching me to discard what matters, to throw away my intentions
into the wind until I’m caught in the sour howl of your shouting
breeze. And when I think I’ve finally got it all figured out, you arrive,
tilting your head, whispering, "Are you sure, my love?"

It’s a question that weighs me down by ounces; as you’re a mistress
who never needs to raise her voice to pin me in place. You’ve been
the needle that keeps me stuck in this bundle of hay, telling me it’s
better to stay, pretending everything’s okay. "Try again another
day," you say – but another day just becomes the next day,
just other days, hey?

And in the meantime, you hold all the orders, dictating how I move,
and how I don’t move. But I shouldn’t be listening to you – putting
you ahead of myself, when really, you’ve only been living rent-free in
my head, making my mind your house, cluttering it until I forget to
chase you out. You bring nothing but stillness – no progress, no
movement, just a hypnotic sway of hips tempting me to sit, to stay,
and to watch life from the window.

No more. Your rent is overdue. Your words hold no truth. Hush
your lips, still those hips – I’m done letting you make my steps
your property. It’s not you, it’s me – for letting you be you to me.
We aren’t meant to be.

Goodbye – Self-doubt...

Sincerely, insincerely signed,

Your ex-lover.

Thoughts on dotted lines – this is my right to write; stepping
into deep conversations just to say I had a shoe in. Maybe in
a thousand days draped in gold & silver, I’ll praise God again –
but do it a third time even when life feels like bronze, because
hubris slips in easy. So humour me this: as humility’s hands
still smudged in ***** pictures, like the past we pretend was
never framed.

To picture life outside the struggles that have stained your
heart, aiming for the middle of it all like a game of darts;
darting away from the past but also seeing red sometimes,
taking each hit with the sight of a bull’s eye: just another
reminder of the battles I’ve already fought.

And for the worth I am – more grand than the grand I would
have earned – the days still erupted like volcanoes, molten
interruptions to the places I didn’t belong. I bottled myself up
until I popped like soda, spilling lava into empty sentiments,
too deep to throw away, and too raw to leave behind.

Some moments do feel like *******, but life isn’t a game
with extra cute lives in a litter – but only pieces of ourselves
we shed like skin, littering the ground we walk on. And maybe
that’s how we breathe to live – by moving forward even with
bruised feet, never quite ready to admit defeat.

And to say, “find yourself a fit woman running laps on your mind –
and catching her breath just means she’s sitting comfortably on
your lap,” is really just a sprint into pleasing the flesh, a race with
no real finish line. And to say you haven’t tasted her in a while,
where one bite makes you relapse – a crack in the glass, it takes two
to tango… but when she starts throwing shade, you start asking
about her love, and where did that perfect tan go.

Maybe I’ve had many partners, but truthfully, most only lived in
my head – my biggest problem was always thinking too far ahead.
A big head, as the women I never touched became intimate in
dreams, yet so intimidating in real life. My insecurity became these
imagined thoughts, and those thoughts made them always fly away.
As my love sickness was a cluster of flu – practicing patience, yet
overthinking until everything failed before it could even start.
A real lack of patience in the heart, and that headache turned into
heartache.

Sure, if I’d asked more of them out, we might have dated – but I
was so out of touch with myself that I felt so outdated. They could
have been less shy, but I was more convinced I wasn’t much of an
impressive guy. Expressive, yes – more direct in invitation, but
never showing up to the party in the end. It isn’t easy for most,
but I felt like I had the most to lose – a heart.

Now I see: I was chasing love as a boy, not building it as a man.
And the truth? It lands heavier when you start by being truthful
with yourself –that’s the only way to fully understand.