In the soft glow of your sorrow,
where the sun fades, and shadows follow,
I see the tender ache in your verse,
each line a whisper, a silent curse.

“Seems Endless,” you write, and the moon listens,
reflecting the tears that your soul glistens.
In the night’s embrace, you break, you bend,
hoping the darkness would never end.

In Missed Connection, your heart speaks loud,
a love lost, yet covered by a shroud.
“I would trade my life for another day,”
for a smile that once chased your clouds away.

Guilt weighs heavy in your heart’s core,
a stain that no tears can restore.
But your words are rich, like wine aged deep,
capturing the pain that makes us weep.

In The Cost, you share the price of love,
how dreams shatter, pushed and shoved.
Yet in your heart, you still hope, still give,
for in your sorrow, we all learn to live.

You say it’s Too Late to turn back time,
yet in your regret, there’s beauty sublime.
To let go of love, to feel that sting,
a silent price that time cannot bring.

Love’s Altruism, you so plainly say,
is not in promises, but in the day-to-day.
To give with no return, to let love flow,
a lesson in grace that we all should know.

Jess, in every word you breathe,
there’s a truth that we all believe.
Your pain is poetry, your sorrow a song,
in the melody of life where we all belong.

"Eye now know"—or do I see?
The world rewrites itself in thee.
A bus of thought, a stop of rhyme,
Where words arrive ahead of time.

The past still echoes, whispers deep,
While future waits at corners steep.
Routes ordained, yet steps unknown,
Where choice and fate are overthrown.

You weave the we inside the me,
A poet riding mystery.
A filter, yet a lens so clear,
That bends the world, brings far to near.

Fig trees rise and vines entwine,
As history nods between your lines.
The Children of Abraham still speak,
In pauses where the quiet peaks.

O poet of the moving street,
Of chance, of time, of hands unseen.
Each stop you make, a verse remains,
A world beyond the windowpanes.