"Every sort of humour takes its life from pain."

Yesterday, I died in my dream.

I am still alive.

Does that make any difference?

What is my name?

Who am I?

Oh! I remember

Isn't it determinism?

Today I sleep well.

Tomorrow I will...

They don't need you.

Under these words – under pressure;
a reflective gaze cast on restless skies, days
becoming mirrors to us all — shining back
fragments we try to ignore.

Thoughts over water, drowning away in
myself — no lifeboat in sight, just ripples
of casual doubts, and this casual self that suits
the occasion of standing on business — as if
duty could silence the tide within.

Later rehearsals play out in the theatre of trials —
where life keeps testing, and those falling in love
in public become gossip in the rain.
Soft, but heard. Brief, but echoing.

Give us a little space; space exists to be used —
lest we start to feel abused by presence that
doesn’t pause to respect the silence.

There’s always a clue to finding yourself —
often tucked inside those who build you up,
brick by spoken brick — sticking to your side,
a friendship made of genuine glue.

And its occupants; are the ones who don’t
overstay their worth, who know how to shape
time into a home away from home.
Not permanent, but warm. Not perfect, but safe.

To share tears like rivers drawing in and from
one another —currents of grief and grace,
there are gifts in that flow. So appreciate those
in your life who’ve been so current —both
present and moving, flowing with you instead
of watching you sink.

There’s a prayer with a sigh—
a breath let out like scripture,
written in stone, signed by a former lover.

Would you ignore every sign,
just to chase the shape of a feeling?
In over your head, thinking you’re
heading in the right direction—
when even the stars have stopped pointing.

A little too forceful, a little too often,
repeating the same mistake like it’s part
of the ritual— a pattern etched in skin,
but called love, to make it sting less.

But maybe… it’s the measure that matters most—
how the repetition finally taught you to become
your own ruler. Not of someone else’s heart,
but of your own.

i remember
a memory —
it isn't mine.
someone else's.

being the kid we used to be
(yes, i'm writing it in their pov)
we drank lemonade under the summer sun,
watched the bulb in the sky brighten,
heard the promises of forever
where no voice resonated.

echoes of my woes
learned to yearn within these walls.

it's a contrast: sweet, distant, aching.
have you ever heard of feeling nothing —
like the silence after chaos,
a void so deep,
there seems to be nothing it's composed of at all?
an absence that has screamed louder since its presence.

i listen to skyfall as i write,
and no, the sky hasn't fallen —
but it seems it would have felt better if it did.
a way to express what i feel deep inside,
since the breaking.

there are regrets.
like a flower blooms under the sun,
my regret bloomed under the skin of love,
whispered between lines,
composed of all the maybes it could have been —
the ideas, the fantasies,
versions of you that never came to just be.

perhaps i'd dreamt different —
not of someone,
but of how things seemed to me.

but it's nighttime, and i sit,
and like a building collapsing, i think —
stars falling, heavens opening, illusions crashing,
my heart strengthening.
it rubs painfully against the chest — or so.
i wish it hurt just a little bit more,
for i feel it tends to lack intensity.

how you simply waved a goodbye —
i felt it like waves in the sea.
yours was late, brief —
mine drowned, delivered me to the ending.

i have my window open.
i'll try to describe the night sky.
it still seems impossible,
like it did that night.

the stars — they watched me silently.
maybe they witnessed the fall as well.
and then i wondered —
did i even know it all that well?

maybe they were the lovers who never made it home.
maybe they were the parallels to what was meant to be alone.
i kinda hoped it'd be one way —
either you'd become a star, or me, or us together.
and whoever remained would have watched it
as we grew old together.

alas, what remains of it now?
the memories, the hauntings —
are they simply the nothings in between the heavier things?

wave after wave,
they take me with them,
bring me back
to where i began.

we were kids once,
with lemonade hearts —
not the sugary kind,
but the one filled with zest and a spark.

the sky remembers all that i've forgotten.
the same track on repeat —
i wish i'd heard it the night that brought me to hit rock bottom.

i want to write and write and write
and let it devour you and me
and all the eyes that ponder over these words whole.

for that nothing
felt like everything for a moment.

and i can't believe
you missed out
on becoming the lovers —
the ones i dreamt for us to be.



that was indeed just the end, then.

like the sounds of tires on gravel
when the track twists just right —
hold—wait—stop—
i need to catch up to my memories.
but what of all the ones you left with?
bled into them: the last gaze, the lasting wounds.
oh, look — it crumbled.

had you promised to stay
and followed it through,
i'd have torn the sky apart
with bare hands,
set ablaze all those who came in our path.
but alas, easy way out —
i saw nothing (that was enough then),
never saw beyond you
(but now i see all of you).

and i shall wash away,
off the shore, at the edge of the boat.
i shall let go and watch.
you've slipped from my hands
like dust in between fingers.
the sandglass broke,
so did the beats at which my heart spoke.
i wish you the best.
i shall hope you find rest
in places that aren't filled with me.

it's a closure,
it's my closure —
turns out,
that's all i've ever seeked.

I’ve got diamond eyes, but don’t see myself so clear,
All the excited boys make the most noise,
Yet depression only needs to whisper in an ear.

Words are prison bars; speaking highly of yourself
the danger of being handed a lengthy sentence–
Booked in the library of time; days sitting on a shelf.

… waiting to be read

Let me stay shelved a little longer— reading up,
leading up, dreaming of a story still becoming
Between the lines; silent – even good stories gather dust
These tales of triumph still tarnish and rust…

Don't judge by how loud or how fast it all looks—
even the best stories get forgotten in books…
misunderstood!

we didn’t need music
just the hum of the fridge
and the dog barking two floors down.
the sheets were half off the bed,
her hair in knots,
my hands shaking
like I’d lived a hundred lives
and never touched something so real.

Serena—
she looked at me like she already knew
where the cracks were
and kissed me there first.
no ceremony,
just heat and breath
and two ******-up hearts
trying to beat in time.

she moaned like it mattered,
like the world might stop spinning
if we didn’t keep going.
I bit her lip, she scratched my back,
we left bruises that felt like
truth.

afterward,
she lit a cigarette
with a hand still trembling
and said,
"we’re not broken,
just bruised in the right places."
and I believed her.