Like an unsated craving,
I burn with the longing
to devour you,
to let your essence linger
on the heat of my tongue.

I hunger for the way
your gaze drips over me,
melting into my
chocolate-sprinkled skin,
hands trailing
like warm caramel
against bare flesh.

I thirst to taste your lips,
sugared and soft,
coated in powdered sweetness,
a trace of jelly-filled delights
that tempt and beg to be devoured.

I revel in the way
you surround me,
your touch a glaze,
your embrace thick as syrup,
enveloping me in the
luscious decadence
of strawberry temptation.

I graze the sugared edges
of your mouth,
tongue teasing, savoring,
until your taste spreads
like honey on my lips,
filling every nerve,
thick, intoxicating—
a rush so sweet,
I crackle apart,
fizzing like the bite
of an uncorked bottle,
spilling, spilling,
until I am nothing
but pleasure dissolved.

Am I all that lingers behind your closed eyes?
Does your body still burn where my hands left sighs?
Do you search for my scent in the folds of your sheets,
Fingers tracing the warmth where our heat used to meet?

My perfume haunts the air like a siren’s refrain,
Red lips pressed to glass, a parting mark stained.
You long for the ghost of my breath on your skin,
Yet I slip through your fingers, gone once again.

You summon me back with a whisper, a plea,
A question disguised in a need for relief.
You love how I look in the hush before dawn,
Mascara smudged, lips tasting like sin and sweet song.

Your eyes drink the light on my glistening frame,
Yet I wonder if you even hear when I say your name.
You are lost in the way my mouth shapes desire,
Between syllables spoken and embers of fire.

Your hands find devotion in tracing my spine,
Mapping the ***** where lust intertwines.
The garter strap snaps, a teasing demand,
Your thoughts pulled deep between the curve of my hand.

Sometimes you’re lucky, sometimes you’re not,
It depends how well you play with the lock.
You crave the way my breath lingers low,
Each exhale a whisper that tells you to go slow.

But your hunger is stopped by a cigarette’s glow,
Redder than lips that you ache to know.
The ember flickers, a cruel little tease,
While your body still hums, still begs, still needs.

All I leave you is smoke and a lipstick-stained ****,
A window left open, the curtain half-cut.
No clothes to bury your face in and breathe,
Just the ghost of my warmth in the cold air I leave.

Night falls again, and so does your pride,
Fingers twitch toward the phone at your side.
You wonder if I know, if I even care,
Yet my touch still lingers in the space that we shared.

A phantom, a fever, a dream wrapped in lace,
Yet you still ache to cradle the side of my face.
You curse how I haunt you, yet plead for the chase,
And adore how I vanish without a trace.

You want what you can’t have—I made sure of that,
You hunger for truth, but I don’t play with fact.
You ask what we are, what this is meant to be,
Yet I love the game, the slow unraveling of me.

And when next we meet, your pulse skips, it stalls,
Until we’re lost in the rhythm, the heat, the sprawl.
Your hands find worship in the temple of skin,
Your name on my lips as I let you back in.

We fall, we shatter, we slip into dreams,
You wake to a bed that still hums with me.
Yet I am not there, just strands left behind,
Scarlet reminders that still twist in your mind.

Tell me, am I all that you think about?

Roses are red, yet I recoil,
Soft things wither, sweet things spoil.
Petals fall with a fleeting sigh,
No bloom endures, so why should I?

So tear them out; let ruin spread,
Let earth reclaim what once was red.
If something lingers, let it be,
The thorn, the scar, the jagged me.

Would you still reach if I won’t bend?
If every touch is war to mend?
I am not made for hands so light,
Not meant to bask in warmth or white.

Plant me deep where shadows creep,
Where echoes hush and sorrows sleep.
Where longing carves its name in bone,
And longing learns to stand silent and alone.

Yet should I bloom against my will,
Should something tender haunt me still,
Then know it was no fate’s decree,
But something wrested, torn, set free.

So wilt, if you must; I will not plead.
But if you stay, if you still bleed
Then tread with care, for thorns still ache,
And what still clings was meant to break.

Roses are red, but I know their deceit,
Draped in perfume to cover the reek.
Petals so soft, yet their roots still decay,
Wilting like promises left to betray.

How many have sung such sickening hymns,
Wove me in ribbons, pulled me in limbs?
Smiling with daggers tucked under their tongue,
Swearing forever, yet leaving me numb.

You plant your words like burial rites,
Lush and beguiling, a maze of delights.
Yet I hear the soil whisper and groan,
For even the garden can swallow its own.

Do you take me for prey, some sweet, willing thing?
Something to pluck and hear how it sings?
A delicate bloom to be crushed in your hand,
To wither, to worship, to break on demand?

I have danced in catacombs, dined with the dead,
Worn grief as a veil, draped night on my head.
I have loved shadows that whisper my name,
And kissed the abyss when no one else came.

So coil your tongue in honey and lace,
Press silken lies to the edge of my face.
Dig me a grave in gardens untrue,
But do not forget I won't be waiting for you.

For thorns do not beg, they do not forgive,
They bury themselves in the ones who still live.
And when the bloom is nothing but dust,
The thorn remains; it feeds, it rusts.

I. The Hollow Hours

Roses are red, but they bloom for none,
Their petals curl, kissed by a dying sun.

The hours stretch long, quiet and thin,
A hush filled with echoes that breathe you back in.

I keep myself busy, I turn from the ache,
Yet longing is patient; it lingers, it waits.

Your name is a whisper I dare not speak,
A ghost at my door, both distant and sweet.

The ink on my pages, the wax on my skin,
Hold traces of longing I dare not rescind.

The stars may mock, the moon may sneer,
But hush them, for now; I want you near.


II. The Slow Undoing

Roses are red, yet their thorns still gleam,
A crueler fate than the one I had dreamed.

The days unravel, spun from the thread
Of words left unspoken, of pleas left unsaid.

I do not chase, yet you linger still,
A shadow, a tether, a test of my will.

The night leans in, its breath at my ear,
Soft as your absence, sharp as my fear.

I scoff at longing, I shun the weak,
Yet tell me, when did I start to speak?


III. The Fragmented

Roses are red, but their fragrance still lingers,
A ghost of devotion that slips through my fingers.

Soft is the hush where your name used to be,
A whisper, a shadow -- still reaching for me.

-- . .-.-.-

Foolish, perhaps, to let it remain,
A thought left unburied, a wound yet unnamed.

..-. . ... - . .-. .-.-.-

The scent turns rancid, the petals curl black,
A sickness, a sickness; I cannot turn back.

-.. . ...- --- ..- .-. .-.-.-

Did I not sever this? Did I not bleed?
Then why does the echo still fester, still feed?

-- .- .. -- .-.-.-

A cruel indulgence, a slip of the chain,
Yet here you return, and I pull once again.

.... --- .-.. -..

Perhaps the silence will fracture, just once,
A mercy, a mercy, a fate left untouched.

- .... . / . -. -.. .-.-.-

Or perhaps I’ll let you suffer, let you wait,
A fever unbroken, a wound left to fate.


IV. The Anomaly

Roses are red, but their fragrance is vile,
Rot creeping inward, corrupting the bile.

I sever the stems, I tear at the roots,
A garden of ghosts in their funeral suits.

The thought is a whisper, splintered, thin,
I crush it, I bury it, yet still, it begins.

Did I not silence this? Did I not burn?
Yet hunger remains where the ashes still churn.

A foolish indulgence, a sickness, a stain,
Yet here you return, and I pull at the chain.

Perhaps the silence will fracture, just once,
A wound torn open, a whisper, a touch.

Or perhaps I’ll let you linger, let you drown,
Let longing devour, let ghosts drag you down.

For suffering, I think, is a safer refrain,
A tenderness left unspoken cannot be profaned.

... .- ...- . / -- . .-.-.-

Fret not, darling, don’t beg, don’t plea,
You were always meant to belong to me.

I wake to a world that does not feel mine,
Rooms stretch too hollow, clocks stutter in time.
The air tastes of absence, the ground hums with ache,
As if I am living a life by mistake.

You were a promise, a breath in the dark,
A name on my tongue that never left a mark.
Did I conjure you up, some fevered belief?
A phantom, a whisper, a love turned to grief?

Did you turn away, did you vanish in time?
Did the world pull you back and leave none of you mine?
Or were you unmade, like frost on the glass,
A shimmer, a shadow, a ghost meant to pass?

The stars look wrong, they leer when I stare,
Their light bends sideways, their silence aware.
Do they know where you’ve gone, where you bled into space?
Or do they still map the shape of your face?

I swore you were here—your breath on the air,
A shiver, a shadow, a touch never there.
But even the echoes have turned from my cries,
As if they have learned what I could not realize.

I glimpse you in halls where you’ve never been,
In doorways that yawn, in rooms wearing thin.
I search for your voice in the hush of the trees,
But the wind only answers in laughter and leaves.

Was I only a whisper, a flicker, a breath?
A thing left to wither, to fade without death?
Or was I illusion—some half-written dream,
A thought that dissolved like mist in the seam?

The sky splits open, the air pulls too thin,
The hours unravel, collapse from within.
If you were a dream, then let me stay blind,
For morning will shatter what’s left of my mind.

Did you turn away, or were you a lie?
A breath on the glass, a trick of the eye?
Do you wake in the dark with a whisper of me,
Or was I the ghost, and you set yourself free?

So bury me deep where the memories fade,
Where no one can find what the hollow has made.
For if you were nothing, then what is this ache?
A life left untethered, in a world I forsake.

The nights stretch longer, the air tastes of rust,
Each breath a requiem, thickened with dust.
The moon hums dirges through hollowed-out trees,
A choir of silence that never appeases.

I have walked every road, I have conquered and bled,
Built towers from nothing, laid ghosts in their bed.
Yet the stars seem dimmer, the heavens too wide,
And I wonder if something still stirs on the tide.

What more is there, when the echoes grow weak?
When the mirror reflects, but no longer speaks?
The weight of the world was once mine to defy,
Now I carry the hush of a long-breathing sigh.

I was never to break, never to bend,
But the ink fades from pages, the stories must end.
Not in sorrow, nor fire, nor whispering knell,
But in something far softer—a slow, ringing bell.

So let me dissolve where the dusk meets the sea,
Let the waves carve another, unburdened, of me.
Let the salt fill my lungs, let the tide pull me deep,
Where the stars dare not glimmer, where the lost come to sleep.

Let the soil forget me, let time lose my name,
Let the roots twist unchecked through the place that I lay.
No eulogies whispered, no stones left to mark,
Only the weight of the night and the dark.