Sunday, 10:00 p.m. feels impossibly late,
and here I am, listening to a playlist
I curated at eight,
thinking of someone I miss—
someone miles away.
Earlier, around 3:00 p.m.,
a message arrived by mistake:
a photo of him,
standing at the pulpit,
his face lit with purpose.
He thinks his hair looks bad—it doesn’t.
I think he could borrow these eyes of mine.
He’s the one I once imagined a future with,
the only person
I never dared confess to.
So I place these feelings
where they can do no harm—in poems,
where names stay hidden
and peace remains intact.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 8:39 AM UTC
Sunday, 10:00 p.m. feels impossibly late,
and here I am, listening to a playlist
I curated at eight,
thinking of someone I miss—
someone miles away.
Earlier, around 3:00 p.m.,
a message arrived by mistake:
a photo of him,
standing at the pulpit,
his face lit with purpose.
He thinks his hair looks bad—it doesn’t.
I think he could borrow these eyes of mine.
He’s the one I once imagined a future with,
the only person
I never dared confess to.
So I place these feelings
where they can do no harm—in poems,
where names stay hidden
and peace remains intact.
For JILP,
At 3:00 pm today, I received a message from someone I knew. Your photo was included, and it stirred my heart a little. I missed you a little more than usual, so I wrote everything here—to keep myself from saying things that might bring confusion if the timing isn’t right yet.
