Call me insane,  
call me crazy,  
forty poems for the same guy  
who does that?  
But try being in my head.  

I can’t stop thinking about him.  
Nothing helps.  
At first, writing these poems  
was my escape,  
my calm in the storm,  
but now  
he’s the storm,  
the calm,  
the everything.  

Even in my sleep,  
he’s there.  
I dream of him.  
I dream of the poems  
I write for him.  

And every time I hear his name,  
my heart tightens
like someone’s squeezing it  
until I can’t breathe,  
like he’s stolen my reason,  
like I can’t think,  
can’t be  
without him.

Was it casual when I showed you my poem?  
It was not.  
Not many get to see that part of me,  
The part I keep hidden,  
Buried deep.  

Writing those poems only makes me love you more,  
Each word a quiet confession,  
Each line a reminder
This love is not like the others.  
I’ve never felt this way before.  

The day I tell you my feelings,  
The day you tell me you don’t feel the same  
That day will be the end of me.  

Three years I’ve loved you.  
Three years of silence,  
And yet not speaking to you  
Has never stopped me from thinking of you.  

I won’t tell you I love you.  
Not yet.  
Hoping my feelings might change,  
Hoping yours might too.  

But I’m not ready to hear those words  
“I don’t love you.”  
I already know you don’t,  
But until you say it,  
It’s not my reality.  

So I will wait for you.

You sit on your bed,  
eyes tracing the night,  
the moon’s quiet glow,  
the stars burning bright.  

And then, there it is
a flash in the dark,  
a fleeting moment,  
a shattered spark.  

You close your eyes,  
make your secret wish  
a silent dream,  
a stolen kiss.  

But it’s already gone,  
the light burned out,  
the echo fading,  
faint and drowned.  

Your dream stumbles,  
lost in the haze,  
but you still hold it,  
you still feel its blaze.  

For even a wish,  
long spent and dead,  
lingers quietly,  
in the space you’ve bled.  

I’m not wishing for a star,  
and I’m not wishing for you  
I’m wishing for a love  
that could have been true.

If you asked me what I like about you,  
I’d say something simple, like, “your humor.“

Because saying,  
“I love how deep and emotional your eyes are,  
how they pull me in,  
make me want to uncover the depths of your thoughts,  
the words you’re too afraid to speak,”  
would be too much, wouldn’t it?  

Or admitting,  
“I love your lips,  
how every word they form  
makes me imagine their touch,  
the way they’d feel  
tracing paths across my skin,”  
wouldn’t that be even stranger?  

So instead,  
I settle for “your humor,”  
because it’s safer  
than confessing the truth.

He used to look at me,  
eyes meeting mine like secret words,  
quietly folding over our small world.  
A laugh, a smile,  
a glance that lingered just a little longer,  
like we were caught in a whispered story.

But now there’s nothing.  
Days pass like a dimming pulse.  
No messages, no mentions,  
just the cold echo of everything left unsaid.  
The warmth once here has slipped away,  
like it never even happened,  
a memory erased before it had the chance to stay.

I wonder if I imagined it,  
if the closeness was just a flicker in the dark.  
He’s here and gone, like a fading spark.  
And though I wish it would light again,  
I wait in silence, shadows,  
just the ache of where he’d been.

You cared about the pain I felt,  
Yet all I did was wonder why.  
Wonder why you seemed to care so much,  
When we barely spoke, barely knew each other, why?  

So I asked you, desperate to know,  
Why your care felt like it was more than it should be.  
But what I read didn’t seem right,  
It left me questioning what it all could be.  

In a moment, without thinking, I said,  
“You have no reason to care.”  
I hope I didn’t hurt you,  
I never meant to, but it felt unfair.  

How odd it must seem,  
For you to care about something so small,  
Why didn’t you see,  
I was talking about you, after all?

I’m starting to hate writing poems.  
Not because he likes writing them,  
Or because I end up writing about him  
No.  

I hate writing poems  
Because when I write, I open up.  
And opening up means admitting  
That I’m vulnerable.  

It disgusts me to know  
That people can see me like this  
Weak, exposed, and fragile.  
So yes, I hate writing poems.  

But still, I write them.  
Because writing these poems  
Feels like the closest I’ll ever get  
To talking to him for real.  

And somehow,  
In those imagined conversations,  
I don’t feel weak. I don’t feel vulnerable.  
I just feel understood.

I cried today,  
in front of my mom.  
The tears fell, soft and heavy,  
after weeks of silence,  
after months of holding on.  

I’m still crying now,  
each drop a whisper  
of something I can’t name.  

Maybe tomorrow,  
I’ll cry into my friend’s arms,  
or maybe I won’t.  
Maybe I’ll laugh it off  
while the ache lingers inside.  

Why the tears?  
I wish I knew.  
Maybe it’s everything I’ve buried,  
or maybe it’s nothing at all.  
But they’re here,  
and they keep falling.

If I saw him loving someone else,  
Would I still love him?  
I’d say no  
but the truth? It’s hidden deep within.  

I’d tell myself I’m better off,  
That it’s his loss, not mine,  
But my heart would still ache,  
As if I were stuck in time.  

I’d smile and pretend to be fine,  
Act like it doesn’t hurt,  
But inside, a storm would rage,  
As I’d watch him love her  
and feel the weight of every word.  

Would I still love him?  
I can’t lie, I know I would.  
But I’d let him go,  
For the sake of what I should.