The city hums like it never learned to rest,
voices spilling through walls,
cars writing their names across the night,
and I sit here,
trying to forget I belong to it.
So I borrow other lives.
I read poems that feel like stolen breaths,
trace my fingers along sentences
that understand things I cannot say,
turn pages like doors
hoping one won’t close behind me.
In novels,
love arrives with purpose,
lingers with meaning,
stays long enough
to be remembered properly.
And I...
I pause between chapters,
wondering what it must feel like
to be written that way,
to be chosen,
to be kept.
But outside,
reality drips slow and colorless,
a quiet kind of empty
that doesn’t even bother to hurt,
just exists,
unchanged.
And I think,
what is the weight of living
if it never becomes beautiful?
What is a life
that no one would stop to read?
So I turn another page,
let someone else’s story hold me,
just for tonight,
just until sleep pretends
I am more
than this quiet evening.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 7:43 AM UTC
The city hums like it never learned to rest,
voices spilling through walls,
cars writing their names across the night,
and I sit here,
trying to forget I belong to it.
So I borrow other lives.
I read poems that feel like stolen breaths,
trace my fingers along sentences
that understand things I cannot say,
turn pages like doors
hoping one won’t close behind me.
In novels,
love arrives with purpose,
lingers with meaning,
stays long enough
to be remembered properly.
And I...
I pause between chapters,
wondering what it must feel like
to be written that way,
to be chosen,
to be kept.
But outside,
reality drips slow and colorless,
a quiet kind of empty
that doesn’t even bother to hurt,
just exists,
unchanged.
And I think,
what is the weight of living
if it never becomes beautiful?
What is a life
that no one would stop to read?
So I turn another page,
let someone else’s story hold me,
just for tonight,
just until sleep pretends
I am more
than this quiet evening.
"I read to feel the life reality forgot to give me."
