The wind did not divide us
Nor the chill of the long night
Or the city's lonely humming
That stole away the light.

It was merely our two hearts
Always beating out of time
And perhaps we never learned
The rhythm or the rhyme.

I do not know if it’s all illusion—
but I adore when someone lies awake, eyes wide with dreams,
tracing blades of grass, searching for me
among flocks of white herons.

I adore how someone falls in love with me
while watching a deer—hair spilled wild, resting
in pale blue light, waiting, almost breathless,
for the hour of longing to end.

And I adore it more
when they listen for dew to learn if I have arrived;
cradling a young hare, wondering if I, too, am restless;
holding a white flower, smiling softly,
gazing at swans and thinking of me.

When rain falls they run outside
just to feel me near.
I love it—
after the long day fades, or in the burnt stillness of afternoon,
when they return, weary as a dove, and look for me—
yes, I love it.

May they remain like rainfall—
gentle, everlasting, felt upon skin and soul.

I need you to understand
this single,unwavering truth.

If I taste the salt of the ocean spray,
or feel the sun’s first gentle touch on a dewy morning,
if I hear a melody that cracks the sky open
or hold a silence so deep it hums with the weight of the world—
every sensation,every breath, becomes a map,
and every map leads only to you.
The world is not the world without you in it;
it is merely a draft of a story,waiting for your name.

But,
if one day your heart grows quiet,
if the light in your eyes for me dims and fades,
my own heart will not beg.
It will learn the art of silence,
mimic your distance,
and build a fortress from the absence you leave behind.

If you ever let me go,
do not expect to find a ghost of me pining at your door.
I will have become the storm,not the shattered window.
I will have taught my roots to thirst for a different rain,
and I will grow toward a new sun,fierce and entire.

However—
if with every dawn,you choose me anew,
if your soul reaches for mine in the chaos of the day,
a constant,magnetic north,
then,my love, know this:

You have built a universe inside my chest.
A supernova of impossible light.
Every word you speak fans the eternal flame,
and every touch is a baptism.

I am yours not out of habit, but by destiny’s unbreakable decree.
My love is not a candle to be snuffed out;
it is the very oxygen that feeds the fire.
And as long as your heart beats my name,
I will be its echo,its rhythm, its unceasing reply.
I will be the shelter around you and the ground beneath you,
never leaving,always holding, forever yours.

The colors haven't faded, no,
they're just as bright as then.
It's that my eyes have lost the know-
ledge of what thrilled me when.

The melody is still the same,
it plays upon the air.
It just cannot ignite the flame,
or find its window there.

This isn't sadness, not a grief,
it's something far more still.
A silent,subtle, inner thief
that time cannot fulfill.

I have returned all that I borrowed—
the dreams,the heat, the light.
I face a narrow,stark tomorrow,
and welcome the coming night.

I drew a line around my name,
a border with no gate.
Inside,the rules are not the same:
there is no love,no hate.

I wonder—
if you reached out your hand to me,
would it find anything?
Or pass through where I used to be,
a ghost on winter's wing?

My Dear,

I’m tongue-tied — I may not be able to say much. It’s been a long time since I looked into your eyes. In the rush of the day we never find a single quiet moment for ourselves.

If I speak, you’ll tell me you have no time for these childish whims. Fine — I’ll stop saying it. But if you ever feel like it, put out the dim light in your room and stare, blank-eyed, at the ceiling for a while. Maybe then you’ll feel what I feel; maybe you’ll see what’s inside me, and notice how wide the distance has grown.

What do you think? That I’m only being cryptic? You see nothing but darkness. There is no place left for jokes — my days and nights are full of nonsense.

Go ahead, add a couple more complaints to the list. Lately I’m beyond ordinary sorrow; call me an enlightened sage if that comforts you. I won’t tell another lie — I’ll try to speak only what’s true from my heart. No — I will tell you nothing but the truth. These sleepless nights have become unbearably irksome.

I’m tongue-tied; I won’t explain the reasons to anyone. You needn’t worry. Keep living your life as you do. I’ve learned a new craft: weaving stories — many lies, a little truth, and mostly imagination.

Enough of that. I’ve rambled so much I forgot the real thing I wanted to say: I miss your smile. I miss it a great deal. Without it, your face looks hollow and empty.

Always,
Someone

Sometimes I feel my insides have dried;
I am only three percent alive—yet still alive.
Three percent alive is still being alive.

I won't say I’m doing terribly;
I've been lying dead for so long.
To be clear: only three percent of me breathes—
and even that is life.

No one speaks, as if nobody’s there,
but there’s one mercy: I don't have to hide how I feel.
Everyone assumes I’m gone.
No—perhaps I’m only three percent alive;
even that is being alive.

Someone left? I don't bring them back,
I keep no watch for anyone now.
I walk the world’s circumference, far from the center.
It doesn't hurt—I'm numb, as if already dead.
Truth is: I am still alive.
Even three percent is still life.

There is nothing to ask of anyone,
nothing left to claim.
I sift through the fragments of memory;
whatever I find, I leave behind in silence.

Around the edge of the world
I draw a circle of emptiness,
lock myself within it,
and watch all other voids unfold.

I wonder—
are you emptiness,
or am I?
If not, then perhaps
every soul is nothing but empty.

I remember a day—
still and silver as morning light,
when my loneliness felt almost sweet,
a quiet refuge where I could lose myself in you.

At our parting you swore,
“This time, I will keep my word.”
You bound that vow by the wings of birds,
as if the open sky itself would bear witness
to the truth of your promise.

But I know—
you have spoken such words before:
to flowers, to birds,
to the old banyan that has stood a hundred years,
to the half-read novel gathering dust on your shelf.
And now I understand—
you are one who can promise anyone,
perhaps even love itself.

Tell me then,
in the end, whose promise did you truly keep?
Did you hold to it, or let it slip away,
just another small thing, too light to matter?
Does the breaking of words never trouble your mind?
If not, how can a person walk so freely through the days,
while the world grows heavy beneath the weight
of what you left unkept?

And still—
I remember the day you promised the flowers,
you promised the birds.
I wonder—did you find the road of no return,
or did you simply forget?
For you gave so many promises,
but not a single one was ever kept.

You said you would forget me—
like restless waves upon the sea,
crashing in the eyes.
You said—
in the city of love, now turned to ashes,
you fear to walk again,
lest one spark
burn your heart once more.

You fear—
oh, how deeply you fear—
not man,
but the shadow of man.
A small man, a small life—
is it light behind the shadow,
or shadow behind the light?

Simple words falter upon the lips—
what I wish to say,
what I end up saying.

You said: Do not return.
In the heavy black monsoon of sorrow,
you walked away.
But will your rain-soaked grief
ever fall again, Beloved?

Today I am like a star, veiled in clouds—
dimmed, lost to myself.
A wandering soul,
burning with the desire
to exist
within your existence.

And yet—
I will sit and wait
on the riverbank of life.
If you wish,
you may return once more,
sailing across in the boat of longing.