The Quiet of Loving You

I hold you softly,
not in my arms,
but in the hollow spaces between words.
In the silence of a breath
just before it falls into sound,
you are there,
untouched by my trembling need to say your name.

I trace your shadow
in the stillness of a crowded room,
a thousand unspoken syllables
pressed between my teeth.
My gaze lingers where it shouldn’t,
but never long enough for you to notice.

It is not sadness, this silence,
but a garden of secrets,
where every petal blooms in quiet reverence.
I water it with patience,
sun it with longing,
but never dare to pluck the flowers.

Because loving you
without your knowing
feels like a kind of worship—
a prayer meant for no one to hear.
And so I hold it,
this wordless offering,
fragile and infinite
in the cradle of my chest.

I don’t believe
loneliness can stretch further than this—
a taut thread pulled to its breaking point,
and still, it holds.

The night presses in
with no edges to catch me,
only air too thin
to carry my weight.

I speak,
and the words fall soundless,
a language meant for someone
who isn’t here.

The quiet swells,
fills every room,
sinks into my skin.

I wonder if loneliness
has a shape
or if it’s just an absence,
a shadow too clever
to cast light.

I don’t believe
I could be more unseen
than I am now—
a ghost who hasn’t died,
a presence forgotten
by the space it once filled.

Romance has died in me today.
Its breath, once warm,
now escapes in cold sighs,
the ache no longer sweet,
the song no longer sings.

The roses I held close
wilted, thorns dull against my palms—
even their pain feels distant now.

Love’s fire, they said,
never truly fades,
but here I stand,
surrounded by its gray ash,
its promises burnt,
its whispers gone silent.

The words I once poured
like wine into waiting cups,
spill no more—
the bottle, empty.

It isn’t anger,
nor sorrow,
but a quiet hollow
where romance once bloomed.

Perhaps it will return,
a seed carried by some kinder wind,
but for now,
the garden lies bare

Is it better to burn for someone
who cannot feel the flame?
To have your heart beat against
a silence that never answers back,
than to sit in stillness,
untouched and unscarred?

Is longing its own kind of gift?
Does the ache of hope
redeem the emptiness
of never knowing desire?

I wonder…
is it worse to dream of a face
that will never turn your way,
or to live with no face at all
to fill the quiet spaces?

They say love, even unanswered,
is better than absence.
But some nights,
the hollow echoes louder
than if there had been nothing
to long for at all.

To the world, I am whole,
a quiet river flowing steady and sure.
But beneath the surface,
there is a storm—a name whispered in the dark,
a fire that only I can feel.

I hold it close, this hidden love,
like a secret carved into stone,
sharp and silent,
forever unseen.

You don’t know the weight of my gaze,
how it lingers just long enough
to memorize the curve of your smile.
You don’t hear the words I’ve swallowed,
each one tied to a hope
I dare not set free.

Unrequited, they call it,
as though love could ever be one-sided,
when it fills every corner of me.
But you remain untouched,
a distant star,
and I, earthbound,
left only with the glow of your light.

So I walk among the world,
a keeper of something precious,
a love too tender for words,
too fragile for air,
too real for you to ever know.

Today,
she wore the quiet magic of the woods,
a lightness in her step that whispered
of leaves brushing against soft winds.

Her eyes caught the sun,
dancing with a mischief only stars could know,
and her smile—
a secret spell,
woven from wildflowers and shadows.

Today,
she moved as if the earth tilted
just to watch her,
an elfin grace
that lingered long after the moment passed.

The winters sun stretches its long fingers,
lighting the edges of the world,
but you walk untouched,
a shadow I can never embrace.

Often I speak your name in the quiet
where no echoes return,
only the hollow ache of air
that once hoped to hold a voice.

Your smile is a fleeting bird,
perched on a branch too high,
its song is a melody meant for   another.
I, I  am the earth beneath,
silent, steady, unnoticed.

I build bridges in my mind,
reaching toward your horizon,
but they crumble with each step,
leaving me stranded in my own longings.

Love, I have learned,
is not always a two-way river;
sometimes it is a flood
drowning one while the other
stands dry, staring at the distant tide.

Still, I carry the weight of you,
not in bitterness, but in the quiet truth
that hearts do not always meet.
Why, even the moon has nights
when it waits unseen,
faithful only to its endless orbit.

After a great love,
a shadow takes its place,
a weight that feels like the absence of wings,
dragging through the ashes of what was bright.

The heart, once a cathedral,
now echoes with silence,
the stained-glass shards of memory
cutting wherever they fall.

Where hands once entwined,
there are fists clenched tight.
Where whispers melted barriers,
walls rise higher, brick by brick,
mortared by bitter words
and unsent letters.

Hate does not come softly—
it storms in, loud and demanding,
dressed in the armour of betrayal,
holding the mirror of every moment
that makes us vulnerable.

It feeds on the spaces
left by tenderness,
on the cracks that love couldn’t fill,
on the questions that will never
find an answer.

And yet, beneath the rage,
beneath the sharp, unyielding edges,
a quiet truth remains:
We only hate so fiercely
because once,
We loved that much.

Do you know,
when the air stills between us, I leave it heavy with unsaid things?
That every pause in our conversation is a breath I hold
to keep from spilling the truth I carry like a fragile glass?

I wonder if you see it, the way I turn phrases too carefully,
as if each word might accidentally confess.
If you notice the silence that blooms in the spaces where I long to place your name,
or the way I linger on your laughter
as though it were a song I’m afraid to lose.

There’s a gravity to this quiet.
It pulls me closer to you, yet I hold my distance,
hoping you might look back and see it—
the shadow of my love, standing patiently beside me,
aching for you to recognize it.

Do you know?
When I look at you,
I’m writing love letters in my mind,
every glance a line, every smile a verse,
every heartbeat screaming its question into the void:

Can you hear me?

I will wait in the slow, hushed hours that drain colour from the sky, knowing the shade won’t brighten again for me but not tonight.

I will wait, though every shadow around me murmurs of your absence, though each heartbeat  drums the rhythm of  truth I’ve heard a thousand times.
You are not coming, not through the autumnal mist, not in the breath of the breeze or the star’s nocturnal quiet watch.
Still I will wait,

I will wait, a promise kept only to myself, a vow unspoken but alive in the chambers of my heart.  I will wait, even as I feel the night lean in close, weaving soft threads of solitude through the silence, as if to remind me that this waiting is mine alone.

For in some dim way, I find company in it; the tender ache that speaks to the memory of what I hoped, of what I dared believe, against all reason, against all proof.

I know you will not come, and yet here I remain.
Here, beneath the silent weight of the grey sky, beneath the patient, unmoving stars, I will wait for you.

And in this waiting, I hold to a flickering truth: that even in your absence, I am somehow more complete for having waited; if only for a shadow, if only for the echo of a dream.

My life now is spent like the last flicker of a match, burning but fading, a dim warmth that softens rather than ignites.

The days unravel quietly and in solitude ,each moment slipping like sand through my fingers—weightless, unnoticed, until I realize there’s less of it left.

I no longer chase time with the reckless hunger of my youth, nor do I greet mornings with the urgent need to carve out new paths. Instead, I linger in the in between, where silence ricochets around me.

The dreams I once built like towers stand in the distance, their glow dulled by the fog of my passing years.

The world, with all its rhythms, still hums around me, but I move slower now, regretting watching from the edges, feeling without possessing.

My life is spent, yes, but in the quiet closing of this chapter, there is a stagnant peace that rises, gentle as the last light of day.

I need to kiss you like the sky needs the sun to break the endless night, like the sea craves the moon to guide its restless tides.

My lips ache with a hunger only your breath can fill, a longing as ancient as the first whispered word between two souls. Every inch of space between us feels like a desert, where I wander lost and parched, searching for the oasis of your mouth.

I need to kiss you as if the air is too thin without it, as if time itself would stop unless I press my heart into yours through that soft collision.

The world could stand still, crumble, or fade away, but nothing matters as much as the simple truth of my life:
I need to kiss you.
Desperately.
Now.
Again.
Forever.

You're always in my heart, a quiet echo that fills the spaces between each beat. In the pause before breath, you linger, woven into the fabric of my being like a thread of light through the soft shadows of evening.

You’re the unspoken thought at the edge of my mind, present even in your absence, a presence that colours everything I see. Even when the world turns chaotic, there you are, steady as a whisper, constant as the sky.

My thoughts drift to you like a river to the sea, inevitable, as natural as the pull of the moon on tides. Always, you are there, not as a distant memory or fleeting dream, but as a truth that anchors me.

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.

Her voice, a blade wrapped in velvet sighs,  
Cutting through the softest parts of me.  
Each word, a storm behind her once loving eyes
Unveiling skies where sunlight dared not be.  

She mocks my pain , twists every grimace ,  
A dance of words with poison on her tongue.  
I, the puppet, trapped in misery,  
While she, untouched, from icy towers sung.  

How cold her gaze, how sharp her gentle scorn,  
I stand as ash, where once a flame was born.

You are in every line, every breath between words. I write you into the spaces, where silence becomes the shape of your name.

My hand moves to trace your form in ink, like it’s always known your rhythm, your pulse, the soft curve of your thoughts. I wasn’t a poet until you—until you made me one, made every phrase tremble with the weight of you.

You live in the verses I never knew how to speak. You became the muse I couldn't refuse, the only one who bends my words into something more, something alive, something that belongs to you. Now, every page waits for you, breathless.

My loneliness is a room where the walls breathe with the echoes of my silence, where shadows stretch long like the hours of an endless night. It is the space between words, a pause that holds more than speech can carry.

The world outside hums with life, a distant melody I can’t quite grasp, as if I'm watching a film with the sound turned down. Faces blur by like passing clouds, their laughter drifting like smoke, intangible, fading before it reaches me.

In this stillness, I hear my heartbeat, a quiet drum that pulses with the rhythm of a solitary existence. Time moves differently here, slow and syrupy, with minutes that drip like honey, sweet with a sadness only I can taste.

The air is thick with the weight of unsaid thoughts, words I swallow before they form, fearing they might break the fragile quiet of this place.

My loneliness is a garden where nothing blooms, where the earth is dry, and roots search in vain for nourishment. Yet, in the barren soil, I plant seeds of longing, tend them with tears, and hope, perhaps foolishly, for something to grow. It is both a sanctuary and a prison, a place where I am left with only myself, to unravel the threads of who I am and who I might become.

And though it aches, this loneliness, it also comforts in its familiarity. It wraps around me like a well-worn blanket, frayed at the edges but warm enough to keep out the cold. Here, in this quiet, I am alone, but not lost. I am empty, but still here, still waiting for the day when this emptiness might finally be filled.

I will  love her in ways people only dream of being loved
I will  lift her up, make you mine, and make her nothing but happy.
I will to kiss her from head to toe, until my lips hurt.
I will to undress her, lay her  down, and hold her until every bad thought she has  in that beautiful mind of hers dissipates.
Then I want to make love until the sun comes up, and fall asleep intertwined in her arms and in her  soul.

I love you in ways I can barely speak, in whispers too fragile for the world to hear. My love for you is a quiet storm, a force that rages within me, tearing at the seams of my soul. I can’t live without you—this truth pounds in my chest like a second heartbeat, a rhythm that I can’t escape. Every moment without you is a shadow, a hollow ache that gnaws at the edges of my being.

I see you slipping away, like sand through my fingers, and I am helpless to stop it. The thought of losing you—of you being lost to me forever—fills me with a sorrow so deep it feels like drowning. I love you with a desperation that scares me, with a need so fierce it burns. I cannot imagine a world where you are not, where your voice doesn’t soften the hard edges of my days, where your presence doesn’t anchor me in this chaotic sea.

Without you, I am adrift, untethered. The thought of you gone rips the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping in a world suddenly too vast, too empty. I love you, and I can’t live without you. These words feel too small, too fragile, to hold the weight of what I feel, of what it means to love you and face the possibility of losing you.

But still, I say them, hoping somehow you’ll hear, hoping they’ll reach you wherever you are, and pull you back to me. Because without you, I am nothing but a hollow echo of what could have been, a shadow chasing after a light that’s fading fast. I love you, and I can’t live without you. This truth is my only certainty, even as I watch you slip further away.

I miss her in the quiet of dawn,  
In the moments when the world is still,  
When the first light breaks, and I wake  
To the absence of her voice,  
A space that only she can fill.

I miss her in the pulse of the day,  
In the rush of life that pulls me along.  
Amid the noise, her silence speaks  
Louder than the crowd’s song,  
A melody only my heart knows.

I miss her in the night’s embrace,  
When darkness wraps me in solitude.  
I search for her in dreams,  
In places where love hides,  
Where my secret still blooms unseen.

Yet I hold my head high,  
For this love, though hidden, is mine.  
A love that defies the world,  
A love that stands in pride,  
For she are the one my heart chose.

I miss her with every breath,  
With a longing that cannot fade,  
But I wear this love like armour,  
With pride in every stride I take,  
For she is my secret, my strength, my heart.

Her messages arrive like whispers in the night, brief, delicate threads of connection. Each word she sends is a pulse of light in the darkness, a soft caress across the distance that separates us. I hold them close, these digital echoes of her presence, reading them over and over until they fade from the screen like footprints washed away by the tide.

She is my secret love, a phantom who slips through the cracks of my day, leaving traces of herself in fleeting glimpses—an ellipsis here, a hesitant word there. I watch them vanish, these messages that disappear as quickly as they come, and I am left with only the ghost of her in my mind. My heart aches with each one that slips away, knowing I can never hold on to her for long, knowing that she exists in a space between moments, just out of reach.

Still, I cherish the silence she leaves behind, the space where her words once were. It is there, in that absence, that I feel her most deeply, her presence haunting the edges of my thoughts. I replay our brief exchanges like a favorite song, each note resonating in the quiet places of my heart. And though her texts may disappear, she remains with me, a secret I keep in the shadows, a love that lingers in the spaces between the words left unsaid.

Wind, you who dance through the world with no barriers, who knows the secrets of every leaf and every whispered breath—hear me now.

As you brush against my skin, gentle and unseen, I ask you to carry my love, delicate as a feather, to the one who holds my heart in secret.

Let my kisses be your passengers, riding on your back like tiny whispers of the soul, traveling through the unseen paths between us.

Move with the grace of a lover’s touch, through fields of wildflowers and over rivers that shimmer like dreams. Slip through the night’s velvet cloak, and find the one who is mine in thought but far in presence

Surround her with the warmth of my longing, the softness of my affection, until they feel the invisible embrace of my heart.

Tell her nothing, wind, for this love is ours to hold close and quiet. Simply let my kisses fall like petals at her feet, like stars at her window, until she is surrounded by all that I am and all that I give.

I guess I wasn’t handsome enough for you to love me. My reflection is a shadow in a glass that never quite catches the light.

I watched your eyes wander to places my face could never take you, to smiles that curved in ways mine could not.

I felt the distance grow in the spaces between words, in the pauses where your voice should have lingered. My hands, once steady, now tremble under the weight of knowing that beauty wasn’t carved into my skin, that no angle of my jawline could ever turn your gaze to me.

I guess my laugh wasn’t enough to echo in your thoughts, nor my touch enough to warm the cold in your heart. The mirror whispers it every time I dare to look: not enough, never enough.

So, I’ll step back into the background, let my love fade like a forgotten sunset, knowing that your eyes seek a horizon I was never part of.

An unrequited love dies not in a dramatic flourish, but in a quiet, almost imperceptible fade.
It begins with hope—a hope that stubbornly refuses to surrender, that clings to every smile, every kind word, as though these fragile moments might somehow bloom into something more.

But time, with its relentless passage, wears away at this hope, turning it brittle and fragile, until it cracks under the weight of reality.

The heart, once aflame with the fire of longing, begins to cool. The dreams that once filled the mind with vivid, aching desire grow dim and distant, like stars fading into the dawn.

The object of affection remains unchanged, oblivious, perhaps, or simply indifferent. Their presence, once electrifying, now brings a quiet resignation, a dull ache rather than the sharp pain of unmet desire.

There is no single moment when unrequited love dies. It is a slow unraveling, a gentle loosening of the bonds that once held the heart captive. The day comes when the heart no longer leaps at the sight of them, when their voice no longer echoes in the chambers of your mind. And in this stillness, you realize that what once was, what could never be, has finally been laid to rest.

Unrequited love dies with a whisper, not a cry. It leaves behind not a gaping wound, but a faint scar, a quiet memory of a longing that once was. It fades into the background, becoming just another story in the long narrative of the heart, a tale of what might have been, had the stars aligned differently.

And though it fades, it leaves a mark—a reminder of the beauty and the pain of loving in vain.

She doesn’t care for me.
The realization settles slowly, like a cold mist creeping in at dawn, wrapping itself around me until it chills me to the bone.

I had clung to hope, even as it unraveled thread by thread, weaving excuses and justifications out of her indifference.
But now, the truth is stark and undeniable, cutting through my illusions with a sharp, merciless edge.

It wasn’t one moment that revealed it, but a thousand small ones—the missed calls, the unreturned texts, the way her laughter never quite reached her eyes when we talked.
OI was always the one reaching out, extending my heart in hopes that she would catch it, hold it, cherish it.

But she let it slip through her fingers, as if it were no more than sand, something to be brushed away without a second thought.

I see it now, in the way she turns her attention elsewhere, her gaze drifting to anything and anyone but me. The conversations that once felt so full of promise are now just empty words, spoken out of obligation rather than affection. Her smile, once warm and inviting, has become a mask, hiding the distance that has grown between us.

She doesn’t care for me, and the weight of it is almost too much to bear.
I feel no  anger, no resentment—just a deep, aching sadness, a sorrow that settles in my chest like a stone.

I wanted to believe that I was special to her, that in me she had found something worth holding onto. But now I see that I was just another passerby in her life, a fleeting presence that she could take or leave without a second thought.

I should have seen it sooner, should have noticed the way her interest waned, the way her words became few and far between. But I was blinded by my own hope, by my own desire to believe that she cared.

I told myself that she was busy, that she had her reasons, that it was only a matter of time before she would come to me with the warmth I so desperately craved.

But she doesn’t care for Mel, and now I’m left standing in the shadow of that truth, trying to find a way to let go of the hope that has kept me hanging on for so long.
It’s a hard truth, a bitter one, but it is mine to face. And as I stand here, alone with this realization, I know that I must find a way to move forward, to reclaim the pieces of my heart that I had so willingly given to someone who never truly wanted them.

She doesn’t care for me.
And that’s ok
. I will care for myself, now.

Do you know how beautiful I think you are?
Your presence illuminates the room, a radiance that transcends mere physicality.

It's in the way you carry yourself,
the warmth in your smile,
the kindness that shines through your eyes.

To me, your beauty is an exquisite blend of grace and spirit, an essence that leaves an indelible mark on my soul.

And now it all comes back
Every wrinkle in your squinted eyes when you smiled
towards me.
Every Laugh we shared.
The short talks and sideways glances
Every absent conversation afterwards
Every Blank Stare.
Every night with a tear stained
pillow wishing you were there.
The reasons I adore you.
And the reasons why we can never be
The reasons I care and the reasons I pretend I don't.
They flood in with the remembrance that hung in your gaze.
Everything I try to erase today has now come back.
I remember you now.
I wish I could forget.
My tears won't allow me.

In the quiet moments between breaths, your presence lingers like the last light of dusk, unwavering and eternal.
I find you in the spaces between my thoughts, where silence speaks your name. Every morning brings a whisper of your laughter, echoing through the corridors of my mind, a melody that never fades
.

You are the ink in my pen, the pause in my sigh, the softness in my dreams.
I carry you with me, a constant companion in the vast expanse of my solitude.
Your essence weaves through my day, a gentle reminder that some connections defy the boundaries of time and space.


Even in the busiest of hours, when the world demands all of me, a fragment of my heart remains tethered to you.
I will never not think of you, for you are woven into the fabric of my being, a permanent imprint on my soul.


In every heartbeat, in every breath, in every fleeting moment, you are there—an indelible mark, an everlasting thought, a beautiful constant in the ever-changing tapestry of my life.

In the quiet hush of night, where the world slips into dreams, I whisper softly, "Good night and sweet dreams, my secret lover."

The moonlight dances through the window, casting silver threads upon my fantasies. Though we are apart, in the realm of dreams, we are bound by invisible strings, delicate yet unbreakable.

Your presence lingers in the shadows, a silent guardian of my sleep, and in the tapestry of my dreams, you are the vivid hues, the whispered promises, the touch that lingers like a haunting melody.

The stars above bear witness to my unspoken vows, each twinkle a heartbeat in the symphony of our clandestine love.

As the night deepens, my thoughts are wrapped in the warmth of your imagined embrace. The world outside fades, leaving only the echo of your name in my heart, a secret shared with the darkness.

Sleep tight, my hidden passion, until the dawn brings us back to reality.
Until then, in the sanctuary of sleep, my love is no longer clandestine .
Good night and sweet dreams, my secret lover.

In the quiet folds of my nights, where whispers of stars kiss the moon's tender cheek, I tell the world my secret: no one knows how much I love and miss her.

My heart beats an ancient rhythm, a song of longing etched into the marrow of my bones.
Each moment apart is a lifetime of echoing silence, where her absence lingers like a shadow at noon, unseen yet ever-present.

The dawn breaks, spilling golden hues over a world unaware of my silent vigil.
I breathe in the morning air, and it tastes of her memory, sweet and elusive, a fragrance that haunts my dreams.

The world spins on its careless axis, indifferent to the weight of my yearning.
They see my smile, hear my laughter, but never touch the core where she resides, a sacred flame burning through the coldest nights.

In every leaf that trembles in the wind, I find her.
In the murmur of the ocean's sigh, I hear her voice.
The world moves in a symphony of colours and sounds, but my eyes see only the spectrum of her.

My ears tune to the cadence of her whispered name.
And yet, the world remains oblivious, a vast expanse where my love is a silent scream, an invisible thread binding me to her.

If they could peer into my heart, they would see an uncharted universe, a constellation of moments where we laughed, cried, and breathed as one.

They would see the void she left, an expanse of endless night yearning for the light of her presence.
But they cannot see, cannot fathom the depths of this love, this longing that stretches beyond time and space.

So I walk among them, a keeper of secrets, a silent witness to a love that defies the boundaries of existence.
And in every step, every breath, I carry her with me, a testament to a bond unseen, unknown, yet infinitely real.

I long to shower her with countless expressions of love,
yet I find myself unable to.
My heart is overflowing with feelings that I wish to convey,
but the words seem to escape me,
leaving my affection unspoken,
my emotions restrained
And my heart a broken mess.

In the quiet corners of my heart, a tempest brews.
I watch her from a distance, my love cloaked in shadows, as her laughter mingles with another's.

Each smile she shares, a dagger that twists deeper.
I ache in silence, my love unspoken, as she weaves dreams with someone else.

The weight of my secret pulls me under, and every glance, every touch she bestows on them is a wound that refuses to heal.

Yet, amidst the pain, I cherish the stolen moments, where my love for you exists, even if only in the solitude of my soul.

In winter’s embrace, the Clent Hills transform into a playground of frosted whispers and snow-clad laughter.
The hills, gentle yet grand, rise with a serene invitation, their slopes a canvas of pure white promise.
Beneath a sky of pale, wintry blue, sledgers gather, bundled in coats and scarves, their breath visible in the crisp, cold air.

Each step crunches underfoot, a prelude to the rush of exhilaration that awaits. The sleds, vibrant against the monochrome backdrop, are poised for flight.
Children and adults alike, eyes wide with anticipation, take their places. With a push, gravity claims its due, and they glide.

Down they go, carving ephemeral paths in the snow, each descent a fleeting journey from summit to base.
The wind kisses their cheeks, an icy caress that quickens the heart. Laughter & joy ring out, a joyous counterpoint to the silence of the sleeping hills.

The world blurs into a symphony of motion and stillness, where time slows, and the only measure is the distance covered, the thrill felt. The Clent Hills, guardians of these winter tales, stand watchful and timeless, bearing witness to the fleeting moments of pure, unadulterated joy.

As the day wanes, the sun dips low, casting long shadows that dance upon the joyous slopes.
The sledgers, weary but content, make their way home, laughter lingering, a sweet echo in the cold, still air.
And the Clent Hills, wrapped in twilight's gentle embrace, hold within them the memories of a day spent in the joyful abandon of winter's game.

Beneath the guise of neighborly smiles lies a cautionary tale, where trust becomes the currency of thievery.


Beware the neighbor's gentle words, for in her sweetness, she may pilfer the most precious treasure: your heart.

Like a cunning thief in the night, she’ll ****** it away, leaving behind an emptiness that echoes through the corridors of your soul.

So heed this warning, lest you fall victim to the allure of her charm, for in her embrace lies the danger of losing yourself to her whispered promises.

In the hush of twilight's embrace, she moves with a grace that captivates the very essence of allure.
Her eyes, pools of liquid midnight, draw you into a realm where time stands still, where every glance is a whispered promise of enchantment.

With each step, she weaves a symphony of seduction, her laughter a melody that dances upon the air, leaving hearts intoxicated with desire.
She is a tempest of beauty, a tempest that ignites flames of longing in every soul fortunate enough to cross her path.

In her presence, the world holds its breath, for she is more than just a woman; she is a goddess of sensuality, a muse of passion, an embodiment of timeless sexuality.

If I could write a song for her , it would be a serenade to the beauty found in the simple magic she  brings.

In the quiet corridors of my thoughts, a question echoes: Does she feel the symphony of emotions I compose for her?

Like a curious wanderer in the labyrinth of uncertainty, I wander the shadows of doubt, seeking clues in the music of her words and the brushstrokes of her actions.

Do my sentiments resonate in her heart as profoundly as hers do in mine? A silent inquiry lingers, weaving through the tapestry of our connection, waiting for the echoes of her response in the corridors of my introspection.

My love for you is a gentle stream that flows steadily,
a quiet force shaping the landscape of my heart.
It's in the simplicity of shared, secret smiles, the comfort of your presence,
and the countless moments where your existence colours my world with warmth and happiness.

In the cosmic ballet, we would reign my queen of celestial grace and I.
Through stardust  dreams, we'd soar, weaving constellations into our paradise, where love is the eternal North Star guiding our celestial journey.
Forever.

In the quiet chambers of solitude, echoes of emptiness reverberate, consuming the essence of my being.

Loneliness, a relentless, insatiable hunger, gnaws at the edges of my soul, devouring the warmth that once resided within.

Each moment stretches into an eternity, as isolation becomes a voracious force, feeding on the echoes of laughter that have long faded away.

The silence, a relentless feast for the shadows of despair, leaves me hollow, a mere echo of the vibrant spirit I once knew.


In this desolate landscape, not a glimmer of resilience persists, as I attempt to navigate through  the labyrinth of my solitude, seeking the elusive dawn that promises to dispel the darkness within.

In the vacant rooms of her home, echoes linger like melancholic ghosts, longing for her warmth that once filled the hollow spaces.

The silence, like a heavy cloak, drapes over every corner, emphasizing the void left by her absence.

Emptiness takes residence in her  vacant chair, the untouched books on  her bookshelf and the untouched memories adorning the walls.

Her house, once alive with her laughter and presence, now stands as a quiet testament to the echoes of what used to be not two days past—a seating silence yearning for her return.