When I say I miss something,
I don’t always mean the people.
I miss the sun that shined through the window,
The leaves fleeting in the wind,
The bird flying by.
I don’t miss the people; I miss the moment and the air,
The feeling of being there—
Even though I’d hate to be there.

Summer night give me hope that winter stole

I like summer—not in the "summer is the best" way—
but in the way the sky looks so clear, so infatuating,
While it hides lies beneath the blue.

I like how the summer wind gives me hope—maybe the promise can be fulfilled.

The summer night breeze carries a sense of comfort,
it reminds me of the good days,
reminds me how I got past the bad ones.
It tell me i can.
The cool wind, in contrast to the warmth—I love that.

Yet I hate summer.
I hate how the hope I buried so deep is floating again.
I hate how I think I might be able to do it now.
Summer kisses my forehead
then leaves me sunburnt,
And stupid with its light and hope.

I hate how the sun burns my skin,
while the hope burns my heart,
It scorchers my bones.

It reminds me of the past,
but not in the cruel winter way.
Rather—
in the "you are so brave, you got past that" kind of way.
It makes me feel like I’m someone.
Someone important.

I hate it.
I hate how the sky looks so beautiful,
The "remember when" moments,
The smell of rain on hot pavement;
the air that lingers with scents I love—
yet I can’t go outside.
The sun will burn me.

Summer makes me like i can do it but when i do
It leaves,
And, thats all it does.
Like it never loved me,
just the idea of saving me.

Nostalgia doesn’t just linger,
It stains.
It clings to the corners of quiet nights,
bleeds from old songs and familiar scents.
The hope you buried floats again.
It colors your laughter with a hint of crimson red;
blood and love intertwined.
It turns moments into memories—
soft, yet haunting.
It hugs you, just to stab and twists the knife.

It whispers sweet nothings.
Shows you who you were,
And it takes it away thoughtlessly.
It lingers in the air,
Just to paint its color in me;
Like a tattoo always clinging to my skin,
Like a scar that I'll always pill.

"His nostalgic memories glorified them .."
Nostalgia is an enemy dressed as a friend—
An old friend with nothing but love to give,
When all it does is take;
Take our present with nothings of past.
A foe cosplaying amity,
A warm wind hiding its coldness
Until it touches your skin—
Softly like always.
Like it's protecting you while destroying your silently
It hugs you giving away it's warmth
Before strangling you, making you feel like a corpse;
Cold and wrinkled.

They say a butterfly cannot see its own wings,
But I can—
The mirror shows me that I’m a moth, not a butterfly.
As if it’s a cruel joke on me.
I stare and stare at the mirror,
Hoping and praying that it’s not how it looks.
I hope and pray that nobody can see me,
But they do—
Because that's the truth
But they do—
Not with admiration, but disgust and pity.