In her sea of unrequited love I am flotsam—
not even wreckage with a story,
just something left behind,
adrift.

She is the water that carries me,
cool and untouchable,
vast and shining,
indifferent to the fragments she holds.

I do not sink—
that would be release.
I float,
caught in eddies of hope,
drawn near by a glance,
pushed away by silence.

There is no harbour,
no shore with arms outstretched.
Only the endless drift
beneath skies that never speak,
toward nothing,
from everything I once believed.

I am the forgotten,
the unchosen,
the still-loyal shard of something
she never meant to keep—
But can’t quite let go

The sky is the colour of well-worn bedsheets,
greyed and softened by countless washes,
a damp washing line kind of grey,
the kind that clings to the air
before a drizzle starts,
or after it ends,
and the world is still dripping.

Not the bright, hopeful white
of freshly laundered linen,
snapping in a summer breeze.
No, this is the grey of a Monday morning,
of a forgotten promise,
of a lukewarm cup of tea.
It's the grey that seeps into your bones,

It settles in your shoulders.
makes you want to pull the covers
back over your head
and pretend the day
hasn't quite begun.
But even this grey,
this damp, heavy grey,
has its own kind of beauty.

A quiet strength.
a muted dignity.
It's the colour of waiting,
of slow, steady growth,
of the earth breathing
beneath a blanket of clouds.

My heart floats in the hollow between beats,
a weightless thing, neither here nor gone,
left in the purgatory of almosts and maybes.

Time drips slow, like sap from a wounded tree,
every second stretched thin,
every breath a whisper of what could be.

Hope dangles, fragile and frayed,
a spider’s thread trembling in the wind,
unsure if it will hold or snap
under the weight of a longing unspoken.

I do not bleed, I do not weep—
I simply linger,
caught in this timeless pause,
my heart in suspended animation,
waiting for the whisper of her touch,
the warmth of her voice,
to pull me back to life.

Her sneers cut like invisible razors,
slivers of disdain slicing through the air,
the silence swelling with unspoken judgments.

Each twist of her lip is a verdict,
a dismissal of the things I am,
a shadow cast over the fragile corners
where I hold my own worth.

Her eyes, sharp as broken glass,
reflect nothing of me,
only the cold echo of her discontent,
a tide that pulls my spirit under.

I feel it in my chest—
a tightness,
as though the air around me
is hers to withhold,
and I am left gasping
in the storm of her unkindness.

Yet still, I stand,
weakened but unbowed,
seeking in the ruins of her scorn
some thread of strength
that does not rely on her mercy.

My days of laughter have slipped away, like sunlight caught in a wave, bright for a moment then lost to the deep.

Once, joy was found  in every corner—a child’s secret smile, the pulse of music in crowded rooms, the thrill of chasing a breeze through open windows.
Holidays,trips to the seaside long since past.

Now, the echoes are faint, hollow notes where melodies once sang. I walk through the same streets, the same rooms, but the colours have dimmed, the voices have softened.

The fun, the careless abandon, the rush of forgetting the weight of the world—they have packed up quietly, leaving only the stillness, the memories, and longing.

Now I wait in this quiet longing,wondering if the light might return, or if I must learn to dance with the shadows of memory instead.