Wooden,
hardened,
treated as a door with none but emptiness beyond.

Walk through me, pass through the scented door.
Cherish the ever so little sanctuary the door provides.
Hold dear to the beautiful scents of the door.

A door holds no lasting imprint on those walking through it,
yet every grip on the handle leaves a stain.
Some are what you carry along,
others merely a passerby.

How have I gone from one to the other?
Taught by life, for if your back is to a wall, none must stab it.
How must I live when eternal bonds know not the path to my heart?

Forever stained by the shadow of solidarity,
protected from the burning warmth I once craved,
bare to the cold I once hated.

Truly, time is all.

Take me into your arms.
Bury and bathe my mind till the thoughts drown and quiet.
Trap me in the world of you; enclose my mind from the world around us.

Free me of thought.
Hold me, dear. Hold me tight.
Never let go—your grip on my mind, loosen not.

Have I not suffered through young and old?
Have I not let my mind run free,
to build forsaken paths I worry to walk?

Hold my memories. Hold them close.
Care for them as I for you.

How must I beg to be abandoned?
Oh, how I dream to be abandoned
by the parts of me I carried not with love,
but with hatred.

When what built you crumbles you,
your eyes meet hypocrisy,
till driven outside the simplistic gates of sanity.

For here, I am not asking you for your love, nor your time.
I come to ask for neither.

I ask for nothing but my freedom,
which you unwillingly, unknowingly carry—
not a key, nor words,
but a chaste of the mind,
which you force upon me.

Could you read?
Not the lines—
but what’s within,
what’s between the crooked letters?

Could you read?
My palm—does it spell your name whole,
or must I let the blood spill through the scars?

Could you read?
Not lines, not words,
but the ones that escape through parted lips,
the ones resting in my eyes, waiting?

Maybe it’s not about could you.
Maybe it’s would you?

Would you read—
the never-ending path I’ve written on parchment?
Would you take that path,
even if the potholes consume it?

Would you walk it,
even as the muscle aches?
Or would you break
before the loss?

Would you read?
Could you read?
Or…
maybe I should ask
Could I even write?

I once stood, roof-bound,
nothing but a t-shirt,
muttering to myself,
sinking into thought.

A gentle, warm touch—
a hand on my arm—
and my thoughts drown
beneath the sound of my own voice.

We talk.

I speak exactly what’s on my mind,
problems truly unsolved,
yet somehow,
you always steal the answer—
pulling it from the part of me
too afraid to say it out loud.

You mastered comfort
in your presence alone.

As we speak into the hours of the night,
the sun rises—
we are still held hostage by our words.

I grab a seat.
You rest in it.
And every problem dissolves
through the greatness of the solutions you bring.

And as the sun begins to settle,
you say:

"You need to let go.
Holding on never does much good."

My response is clear as day:

"If holding on to you does more harm than good,
then I'll sit a victim through the world of hurt."

You don’t reply.
Instead, you mutter—

"I love the sunset.
A reminder that everything leaves,
and will start anew.
Even I will leave,
no matter how you hold on."

I turn away from the sun.
I look at you.

And only then do I realize—

You never stole the words from my mind.
You never solved any of my problems.

You were never there.

I worry of your emotions
I worry of your future
I worry of your future without me
I worry of the time I'll hear the words it's another escape from your lips
I worry my proposal will be met with rejection
I worry of the connection I once cherished to be severed
I worry of the future that doesn't include you
I worry of the plans I'll have without you
I worry my knees will break waiting for a response
I worry about what I lost the day I met you, my heart a coin you pocketed without counting
I worry about fairness, how can I be fair to my partner if it won't be you.

I worry
I worry in your absence
I worry in your presence
I worry in life,
I worry that I won't have
the money
the looks
the jokes
the love
to give to make you happy.

yet I never worry that you won't make me happy for
it can be your voice
if not
it can be your eyes
if not
it can be your touch
if not
it can be your ears
if not
we'll watch as time collapses into the space between each breath as even silence whispers your name

I wish I could pause time,

for then,
if I spent eternity by your side,
held close by your hands,

I’d finally get enough of your intoxicating self.

Or I’d spend a hundred years
becoming the perfection you deserve,
so when you opened your eyes,

you’d see me kneeling with the ring,

that shines not with light
but as a reflection of your essence.

Maybe then,

I’d feel your arms drape over my shoulders,
my hands along your waist
as we sway with the rhythm
of our unspoken chemistry.

Or maybe,

I’d spend the first eternity
admiring your eyes,
and the second
lost in the phenomenon
known as your ethereal gaze—
something no lens could frame,
only admired.

I never liked summer.

Not as a child.

Huddled by a fireplace,
no shirt and a short just a mere 5 year old,
Begging the flames to give me the warmth I crave.

I never liked summer.

Maybe it was the silence,
The empty walls,
The way life seemed to move on without me.

I never liked summer.

Winter had always been kinder,
Bringing people closer,
Wrapping me in a cold I understood,
and loved.

But then you said,
"Summer is my favorite season."
And winter lost its warmth.

The snow felt sharper,
The fire distant.
And summer— Summer became the heat of your voice,
The glow of your presence,
The warmth I never knew I needed.

what I once clung to as a dreamland,
fades away in the world of you.

With nothing but your words,
You rewrote my thoughts and bent my beliefs.

I felt every stubborn inch of myself crumble accept it's fate,
that even your lies become my truth,

and your beliefs are mine to carry

Stood by the entrance of a coffee shop,
Dark green t-shirt, burnt papers in hand,
The last exam solved, the weight lifting off my shoulders.

Friends around, a drink in hand—laughter in the air.

If I had known that was the last time I’d see you,
I would have cherished every second.

I would have gone for the hug instead of the fist bump.

I would have taken a picture with you, by the mirror,
So time couldn’t steal the moment away.

I would have ignored the world—every friend, every noise—
And given you my full attention.

I would have frozen time in the moment we stood side by side.

I would have known that your journey home
Was the path that would separate us.

I would have looked into your eyes and stayed there,
My gaze filled with nothing but love.

Redacted*

I met you when I was sixteen,
a glance, a laugh across the room.

Weeks passed, yet every step I took
was searching for you in the crowd.

We went for coffee—
I hated coffee, so you ordered mine.

The worst drink I'd ever tasted,
yet perfect,
for it carried the thought of you.

Wallet in hand, money on the counter,
yet you paid.
Illogical, I thought, strange—
but now I know,
logic fades in your presence,

and only one truth remains:
Because you're you,

and I love you.
So here I am, saying it again—
I love you.

I bled.

Warmth seeped into my cold arms,
The vivid hue a reminder of life within me,
And me within life.

No pain—only a thought:
Is this the shade of burgundy you love,
Or is it darker?

If I were to capture it in a painting,
would you hang it?

Would it move you more
if you knew the source?

For even my emptied veins, a sacrifice,
Remains unworthy of you.

I was never yours. You were never mine.  
We never held each other. You know me not.  
I acknowledge you whole, yet I know fractions of your entirety.  

I want to hold you close.  
I want your perfections against my skin, printing on me.  
Even better yet, I want your imperfections on me.  
Stain me with what you call imperfections,  
colour me black with them.  

Tear me apart—with effort.  
Make me yours, for life.  

Let me carry your imperfections,  
of which they hold no weight.  
Let me carry the weight of your perfections.  

Let me pave the road of us.  
Maybe your print will be missing from the first miles of it,  
but your print is everlasting on me.  
And on the road—who can carry the burden of us together?  

A road fractured the instant we met.  
Parallel worlds.  
I fall into a world where vividness falls short of the eye,  
another where light meets colour,  
and my eyes meet you.  

I was never yours—  
or so you say.