the night is running beside me,
dark limbs tangled in the rhythm—
a pulse, a promise, a threat.

the drums don’t ask for permission.
they pound like a lover’s demand,
like a fist through the ribs,
like a city about to riot.

there is no plan, no end—
just movement,
just the heat of breath against breath,
just the horns, loud and reckless,
kissing the air like they mean to tear it apart.

this is not a song,
it is a fever, a chase,
a lover with wild hands and a knife behind the grin.

there is no stopping now.
we run. we dance. we burn.

i woke up this morning
with the same old ache,
the kind you don’t remember
until it’s there,
and it doesn’t care
whether you’ve got a plan
or if you’re just filling time.

the coffee was burnt,
the smoke curled up in the kitchen
like it was trying to make a point—
but who listens to smoke?
who listens to anything
that isn’t loud enough
to scream?

i walked down the street,
watched the same dogs
chase the same cars,
people pretending
they weren’t going to die
just because they smiled.
it’s all a loop,
like a song you hate
but know all the words to.

the bartender asked
if i wanted a drink.
i said no,
but still,
i picked up the glass.
the whiskey didn’t ask questions—
it just settled in,
numbing things
i couldn’t name.

it doesn’t matter,
none of it does—
it’s just you and me,
filling spaces,
waiting for the moment
we realize
there’s no moment to wait for.
it’s all happening right now—
and then it’s gone.

the club was loud, drunk, and stupid—
a place where people forget themselves
just long enough to pretend they are free.
I wasn’t pretending.
I saw you.

two classmates, two drinks,
one thing on my mind.
I said hello, we talked—
but the other girl might as well have been a shadow.
it was you, only you,
and I knew it before you even touched me.

your waist under my hand,
hips moving, bodies too close to be anything but honest.
the music was deafening, but when I turned to you
and asked—
can I kiss you?
I swear the whole ******* world went silent.

then—
heat.
your lips on mine like something hungry,
something desperate,
something that had been waiting to happen
long before either of us knew it.
we didn’t stop.
we couldn’t.

your hands in my hair, my hands on your skin—
pulling, searching, knowing.
your body against me, pressed close enough
that I could feel your breath
before you stole mine.
I forgot the club, the drinks, the people.
I forgot everything but you.

you sat on my lap,
wrapped around me like you belonged there.
my fingers traced your spine,
felt your ribs, your heartbeat.
I wanted to press myself into you,
leave something behind
so that tomorrow, you’d still feel me
somewhere under your skin.

we had to stop to breathe,
but even that felt like a waste—
because every time we pulled away,
your eyes just dragged me back in.
and god, I never knew wanting could be like this.
like thirst, like hunger, like the kind of madness
that makes men build temples
and burn cities to the ground.

and now—
morning.
class.
the test I didn’t study for because I spent all night
learning the shape of your mouth.
I sit here, staring at you across the room,
wondering—
was it just a drunk kiss?
will you look at me like that again?
or will you let the night die
like something you never really wanted?

I don’t know.
but what I do know is this—
I never wanted to stop.
and I sure as hell don’t want to now.

Some people
never leave the office before five.
They sit under fluorescent lights,
sipping coffee,
their dreams filed away in cabinets,
marked „someday.“

Some people
marry their first loves
and never think
about the roads they didn’t take,
the lips they didn’t kiss,
the lives they didn’t live.
They call it safety.

Some people
die in bed,
a whisper for a live,
and the night swallows them whole.
Their gravestones say:
„Beloved.“
Their ghosts scream:
„Bored.“

The city doesn’t sleep,
it mutters to itself,
like the old man on the corner
shaking his cup for spare change.
The lights blink out messages
you’re too tired to read,
and the streets carry whispers
of footsteps you’ll never follow.
You’re alone,
but not lonely-
not really.
The world’s still spinning,
the stars are still laughing
at us poor fools who think
this moment
means something.
But maybe it does.
Maybe that streetlight blinking ahead
is a sign.
Or maybe it’s just a bulb going bad.

Does it matter?
You keep walking.

i told myself i was done.
scrubbed the bathroom tile like it was me that needed cleansing,
not the floor.
drank coffee instead of shots,
hit the gym,
got good at smiling again.
they said i looked better.
they always say that when you’re not dying in front of them.

but they don’t see
how the ghosts still come at night,
how the itch lives in the jaw,
in the back of the eyes,
like a ******* radio playing a station
you thought you turned off months ago.

i was clean.
for a while.
like the silence right before a scream -
that beautiful, dangerous quiet
where you think maybe you made it.
maybe this time you beat it.
maybe this time you win.

but addiction is smarter than you.
it waits.
doesn’t need to rush.
it knows you’ll come crawling
when the applause fades,
when the texts stop,
when the world gets boring again.

you think you’re sparing them,
keeping it tucked away,
like shame’s just a private little pet you feed
when no one’s watching.
but hiding it doesn’t protect them.
it just breaks them slower.
like they’re loving someone through bulletproof glass -
close enough to see the cracks,
too far to stop the bleeding.

and the worst part?
the worst part is that some days
you’re proud of how good you’ve gotten
at pretending.
how well you play “okay.”
like you deserve a ******* medal
for surviving your own lies.

truth is -
you don’t ever get out.
you don’t get cured.
you just get distance.
and even that -
that’s a rental.

because addiction
isn’t about weakness,
it’s about forgetting how to want anything
that doesn’t destroy you.

and maybe one day
i’ll be better.
but i’ll never be new.

and maybe that’s what clean really means -
not the absence of poison,
but the choice to keep waking up
even when it still lives
in your bones.

Life isn’t grand,
it’s a ***** table in a dive bar—
the one where the varnish peels and
your drink leaves rings behind.

People walk past you,
pretending not to see the mess,
the bartender wipes at it anyway,
but it never quite cleans up.

You make a toast to nothing,
to everything,
to the way the sun stains the air at 5 p.m.,
or the waitress who once gave you a smile
you thought was meant for you.

Life isn’t a stage or a script—
it’s that quiet shuffle of feet
as you step outside,
into the cold,
and realize you forgot where you parked.

I asked the moon for mercy.
It laughed -
said mercy was for lovers,
not those who wander alone.

Every room I‘ve lived in
still exists somewhere,
paint peeling,
floors scuffed by boots
I don’t wear anymore.

The walls hold secrets
I‘ve forgotten -
the arguments,
the silence after arguments,
the hum of the fridge
at 2 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep.

I wonder if anyone hears me now,
the way I hear the ones
who came before.