In the middle of my haste to arrive somewhere acceptable,
I saw a glint in the dark street
I bent down quickly, almost relieved.
I lifted a crumpled wrapper, mistaking reflection for value,
Mistaking borrowed light
For a sacred halo.
Perhaps
I was in a hurry to value something
Or perhaps I was afraid of walking alone at night.
So I built a shrine out of that foil..
Out of convenience
And called it commitment.
No sorrow ever truly belonged to me,
No joy ever rose from my own depths.
I became a container with a hole,
Waiting to be filled.
I deceived myself carefully, over years,
Convincing myself I was wounded by love.
What I called love
Was a contract signed to quiet the noise,
A drug taken to numb the hunger
I refused to name.
I walk the streets of an empty city
Wearing a familiar face,
Pass through tunnels built by meaningless rituals and endless expectations,
Telling myself I was loyal to love.
Only later did I find
I had only been loyal to my own emptiness,
Protecting it with ceremonies,
Calling the cage a home.
And yet
The scent of that perfume still ignites my mind,
Neurons flaring like distant, dying stars.
Cigarette smoke pulls me back.
To that porch under a moon that didn’t ask for promises.
Your skin, the cold air, the heat of the understanding
I wonder if you still feel it
When the wind shifts direction.
I stand now holding this piece of shiny trash,
This foil that once pretended to be gold.
I accept the silence after thunder.
There is no grief in the object,
Only in the hand that holds it.
Nevertheless
I never truly lost you,
Because perhaps I never truly had you.
But I am still here.
Still waiting without haste now.
And for the first time,
The night no longer frightens me.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 2:28 PM UTC
In the middle of my haste to arrive somewhere acceptable,
I saw a glint in the dark street
I bent down quickly, almost relieved.
I lifted a crumpled wrapper, mistaking reflection for value,
Mistaking borrowed light
For a sacred halo.
Perhaps
I was in a hurry to value something
Or perhaps I was afraid of walking alone at night.
So I built a shrine out of that foil..
Out of convenience
And called it commitment.
No sorrow ever truly belonged to me,
No joy ever rose from my own depths.
I became a container with a hole,
Waiting to be filled.
I deceived myself carefully, over years,
Convincing myself I was wounded by love.
What I called love
Was a contract signed to quiet the noise,
A drug taken to numb the hunger
I refused to name.
I walk the streets of an empty city
Wearing a familiar face,
Pass through tunnels built by meaningless rituals and endless expectations,
Telling myself I was loyal to love.
Only later did I find
I had only been loyal to my own emptiness,
Protecting it with ceremonies,
Calling the cage a home.
And yet
The scent of that perfume still ignites my mind,
Neurons flaring like distant, dying stars.
Cigarette smoke pulls me back.
To that porch under a moon that didn’t ask for promises.
Your skin, the cold air, the heat of the understanding
I wonder if you still feel it
When the wind shifts direction.
I stand now holding this piece of shiny trash,
This foil that once pretended to be gold.
I accept the silence after thunder.
There is no grief in the object,
Only in the hand that holds it.
Nevertheless
I never truly lost you,
Because perhaps I never truly had you.
But I am still here.
Still waiting without haste now.
And for the first time,
The night no longer frightens me.
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