Another silent night where a moth flies with all its might,
To the flame, a beacon, too warm and bright
This entrancing distant spark in the vastness of the dark
Is proof that beautiful things, too, could end a life

“I could never blame you for how you’ll ruin me,
for I have always loved in extremes.”

The soft wind blows, enhancing the flame’s curves
The fearless moth draws nearer to the heat
It knows the cost, but it does not fear
To lose its wings for a single kiss

It has become a curse to remember so vividly,
those moments, simple yet profound.
Like smiles, the sound of breath, and the warmth of their palms.
Loving, I’ve realized, is often about memorizing.
Attending to every detail whenever you can.
Their presence becomes integral, no matter how scarce,
So you rely on all your senses to keep them alive.

And when it’s time to leave, everything falls silent.
The glass feels more half-empty than half full
You realize, that their absence, too, hangs in the air
A feeling you don’t just remember, but live in
And you’re left wondering,
why their absence feels more permanent.

They say to maintain emotional balance, we need three positives for every negative.

Anatomy taught me that two-thirds of the heart's mass sits on the left side of your chest.
Since then, I began to imagine that negative emotions gather on that side.
And when the positive falls short, and the scale tips too far, the weight becomes physical.
I named this feeling 'lopsided sad' — when the heaviness tugs at my ribs, pulling one side of me toward the ground, as if half of my body is anchored to the earth.

Why do I keep collecting more baggage than I can carry, clutching it all in one hand?

I've been counting my blessings since that day, in an attempt to restore balance.
With desperation, I listed everything that is good,
every little thing that counts;
word by word, letter by letter,
I collect each one like pennies,
wishing that every line and curve that forms them
would suffice to outweigh the bad.

Three for one.
The equation has been flawed from the start,
three sparks just to dull the dark.
Maybe this is how we're meant to walk the earth—
always leaning on one side, never upright

I'll be up at five, so I can leave by six. For this rare occasion, I won't hit snooze. It does not matter that my bones are creaking, and my eyes still craving some sleep because a longing heart can defy anything that's making me weak.

For love, I will ride motorcycles, and respond uncomfortably to men who do not need to know anything more than my name, and where I'm headed. We'll hit the road obnoxiously, and take turns on unfamiliar streets. I will put all my faith in the helmet I'm wearing, and in humanity, while I hold on for dear life.

After a dreadful ride, I will step foot inside an unfamiliar building. I could place a bet that I'd get lost inside because well, it's me. When I finally find my bus, I will hop on anxiously. Yet, despite everything that's running in my head, peace will come to me.

It will come in the way the early sun lies in the palm of my hand, its warmth, melting away my worries.
And from the pair of bright innocent eyes peeking from the seat in front of me.
Calm will come from watching the bus slowly fill with passengers from the city.
Especially, from the thought that all of us are headed somewhere for a grand reason — for love.

Dread will become anticipation and anticipation to plain excitement.

I will wait patiently behind the soft murmurs of strangers. And when the conductor finally hands me my ticket, I would think that I could do this as often as you want me to.

In my seat, I will sink with both childlike wonder and a new sense of independence. There, I will find joy in all the unfamiliarity.

The ride will be a cycle of seats getting emptied and reoccupied as the bus traverses through cities.

And when it gets emptier, I will tell you that I’m almost there.