I admire everything about you—
not in the way one admires a passing flower,
but as the earth admires the sun:
distant, constant, and necessary for every bloom within me.

I do not understand why God shaped us in bodies of clay,
when what truly unravels my soul
is not the shape of your hands
but the silence between your words,
where your kindness breathes and your truth resides.

I did not fall for what eyes can measure—
not for your face, your frame,
but for the invisible glow of your character,
for the way your heart moves like soft wind over still water,
disturbing something deep within me I thought had long gone quiet.

Your presence is a prayer I never learned to say,
but feel answered every time you smile—
a smile that does not just light a face,
but melts the frost in places I didn’t know were cold.

And your voice—
it doesn’t speak so much as it hums through the chambers of my being,
like the echo of rain in a sacred cave,
making me wonder:
are you truly made of the same dust as I,
or are you some hidden fragment of heaven
that God forgot to name when He whispered stars into the sky?

And still I ask, in awe and trembling:
Is it you that I love—
or is it the glimpse of God I see through you,
the divine fingerprint etched in the way
you make me believe again
in the beauty of simply being?

Still, your name softly lingers in the quiet halls of my mind,
a gentle echo that time cannot erase or unwind.
Your face, like a fading light at the edge of dusk,
rests tenderly in the folds of memory’s husk.

I wonder why your presence holds such gentle sway,
like a distant star that guides the night’s slow ballet—
a subtle thread woven through the fabric of my days,
a quiet song that hums in delicate ways.

I do not wish to be a prisoner of mere shadows and dreams,
but to build from hope a love that flows like gentle streams—
one that will quietly ripple through the stillness of the world,
when you choose me, and our story is softly unfurled.

And when the eyes of others glance upon our secret grace,
they’ll see not just a chance, but a sacred embrace—
a bond that words could never fully define,
a tender truth written beyond the bounds of time.

Beneath the red glow of the lanterned flame,
Two dancers meet and set their steps in line.
One keeps the beat as though it were the same
Since first the devil taught him how to shine.

His fire leaps high; the crowd can feel its heat,
Each practiced turn a well-remembered show.
Yet while the rhythm makes his work complete,
The steps have nowhere further left to go.

I move beside him, not to take his place,
But shift the tune to see what else might play.
The floor becomes a wider, stranger space;
We find new shapes in night as well as day.

He holds his ground with admirable grace,
Each pivot strong, each landing firm and true.
Yet I drift outward, testing empty space,
And find fresh patterns blazing into view.

The devil smiles to see such steps unfold,
For heat alone won’t keep his ballroom warm.
The dancer’s art is not just to be bold,
But bend the blaze into another form.

The crowd may cheer the skill they understand,
Applaud the lines they’ve learned to love before;
But some will watch the one who shifts the sand
And wonder what else waits beyond the floor.

When music dies, the truth is sharp and kind:
The dance that grows will outlast any round.
To keep the flame is art of one clear mind,
But greater still to change the shape it’s found.

I am tangled in your noose,
Still breathing but not alive,
The further you loosen it,
The more I can feel my hands
stretching and yearning until
I
am
at
your
throat,
My fingers closing around the gap that lets you breathe
And the more you push me away
The more im stuck in these vines
And i can still breathe,
Barely
Because you're the one choking here,
In my grip

I know you're in pain,
And I could let go
But I don't want to
The vines feel good,
The death feels cool,
I am still tangled in your arms
as you perish in mine