Hour ticking, 16 seconds I finally spoke, as we ended.
And I, traitor to my own heart,
gave you a whisper, in the shape of ur name
when I meant to hand you a sonnet.
An answer I thought translates the weight it holds
You thought “run” in your head
But language folds in on itself?
You,
half-memory, half-mirage, never fully in my grasp,
but always in the air I inhale like second thoughts.
My messy brain strangling words that could’ve been said like
You are the pauses between breaths when I don’t realize I’m holding mine.
That you exist,
In fingerprints on coffee mugs, everything just bright
In shared silence, In awkward unfinished punchline
we both start smiling before they’re even told.
I could have shaken my head a little, maybe then it’ll be simple and exhaled,
that you live in the parentheses of my distracted thoughts
it’s the pull that keeps me awake, never the subject,
But instead,
I stood at the edge of the sentence
I watched the moment turn dark
Now I am left with metaphors scratching the inside of my chest
a thousand ways to say “you”
you are not a sentence.
You are the margin I write toward.
You are the reason
Blank pages feel like confessions
How do I say
***
His presence rearranges the furniture, in the quiet rooms of my mind.
Suddenly, space is softer, It’s like you’ve always lived inside.
There is something about the way he listens
As if he’s mapping constellations from the pauses in my speech.
he read silence like a second language.
He makes stillness feel so full,
Like a museum after hours.
Like a church with the lights off.
Reverent. Intimate. Unnamed.
how I replay to his “good morning” texts, like they’re voice notes from the universe.
How he makes ordinary moments feels like Easter eggs in a movie, only we understand.
How his presence calms that anxious part of me, with him it’s never too much.
***
I gave you only your own reflection.
But I meant:
you are the ink I can’t keep still.
You are the reason blank pages, terrify me.
Not because I have nothing to write
but because I finally do.
By: Zoulaikha
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 9:13 AM UTC
Hour ticking, 16 seconds I finally spoke, as we ended.
And I, traitor to my own heart,
gave you a whisper, in the shape of ur name
when I meant to hand you a sonnet.
An answer I thought translates the weight it holds
You thought “run” in your head
But language folds in on itself?
You,
half-memory, half-mirage, never fully in my grasp,
but always in the air I inhale like second thoughts.
My messy brain strangling words that could’ve been said like
You are the pauses between breaths when I don’t realize I’m holding mine.
That you exist,
In fingerprints on coffee mugs, everything just bright
In shared silence, In awkward unfinished punchline
we both start smiling before they’re even told.
I could have shaken my head a little, maybe then it’ll be simple and exhaled,
that you live in the parentheses of my distracted thoughts
it’s the pull that keeps me awake, never the subject,
But instead,
I stood at the edge of the sentence
I watched the moment turn dark
Now I am left with metaphors scratching the inside of my chest
a thousand ways to say “you”
you are not a sentence.
You are the margin I write toward.
You are the reason
Blank pages feel like confessions
How do I say
***
His presence rearranges the furniture, in the quiet rooms of my mind.
Suddenly, space is softer, It’s like you’ve always lived inside.
There is something about the way he listens
As if he’s mapping constellations from the pauses in my speech.
he read silence like a second language.
He makes stillness feel so full,
Like a museum after hours.
Like a church with the lights off.
Reverent. Intimate. Unnamed.
how I replay to his “good morning” texts, like they’re voice notes from the universe.
How he makes ordinary moments feels like Easter eggs in a movie, only we understand.
How his presence calms that anxious part of me, with him it’s never too much.
***
I gave you only your own reflection.
But I meant:
you are the ink I can’t keep still.
You are the reason blank pages, terrify me.
Not because I have nothing to write
but because I finally do.
By: Zoulaikha