I remain an iteration of past mumbles
No future do I yearn to.
I'll tell you about a "Once upon a time"
Instead of the coming blue.

In no present have I remained,
Only in "once" and what if
I sing of the begone days
In the tavern of lost grief

Here I pour wine to newer cups
Which time forgets to brew.

Never to be known,
a woman’s scorn,
how a man mourns.

Gone into the void,
Her being coy,
A boy becomes a man.

A pair,
to share despair,
from windows,
wiped clean,
from those,
who need to grow,
before they turn old,
and rot away,
bitter and cold.

The house that sees everything,

Still abandoned for little things.

No ghosts to roam the corridor,

Just empty silence that feels loud as a roar.  



Maybe someday someone will see it for who it is,

Not the stories echoed with myths.

Echos of the forgotten children
dance along the
breeze.
With tired eyes and weary smiles
as they
sleep along the streets.

No kind words or helping hands
from the strangers
passing by,
just echos of forgotten children
an
endless
hopeless cry.

Nowhere to turn, no place to run.
Just lonely
damaged souls.
They try to hide or numb the pain
of being left out
in the cold.

Years its been,
since they felt warmth;
most do not remember love.
So the echos of forgotten children
are quietly swept,
under
the rug.

Their tears trace familiar paths
across their
*****
cheeks.
The echos of forgotten ones
that sleep along
the streets.

Its cold its dark,
they are alone.
They fear the end
is soon.
So they numb their pain
in any way
even if it brings their
doom.

The echos of forgotten children
forced to grow up
much to fast,
dance their way
through lonely streets.
Reminders of
their
tragic
past.

I’ve only ever seen two outcomes
in terms of meeting people:
you’re either betrayed
or forgotten about.

and sometimes I’d rather take
the malicious stabbing of bad faith
over the slow waltz with the long knife.


that’s all.

they forget you fast.
faster than you blink.
like a dream that fades
before you can think.

you meant the world—
until you didn’t.
they said forever—
but never meant it.

you missed one call,
one laugh, one night,
and suddenly
you’re out of sight.

they move on
with brand new faces,
fill your space
with different places.

you were the hand
that held them tight.
now you’re the ghost
they leave at night.

no goodbyes.
no sorrys said.
just silence loud
inside your head.

they forget your voice,
your jokes, your name.
they play the part—
but not the same.

you still remember
what they wore,
the way they cried
behind closed doors.

but they forget.
and that’s the sting—
you gave them everything.

and they
gave you
nothing
back.

now you're the song
they used to hum.

a half-heard line.

a quiet
"what’s his name again?"

does our distance make you sad? 6.29.25 (6:45 pm / 18:45)
does our distance make you sad
or are you just forgetting

do you remember those days we had
sitting next to each other
small and smiling
carefree

do you remember meeting me
kindergarten classroom
i kind of don't
it seems so long ago
but i remember we were instant friends

do you remember every day
when i came into the classroom, always later than you
we'd run up and hug each other

do you remember how we loved each other

you act like you've forgotten
you act like we were never friends

love i know we were broken apart
but is that a reason to forget me?

i remember you
oh, you

[playing: somewhere over the rainbow - live from manchester by ariana grande]

Bric-a-brac high on a shelf, it might fall
On a floor with no carpet, might break and be gone.
It may slither, get lost, or be taken away;
Nevertheless, it just can't walk away.
It may gather dust, be moved, kept in hands, or removed
Somewhere else when the owner does not want to look.
Bric-a-brac is sometimes boring; it stands there so still,
Does not change by the hour its colors or kin.
It stays in one place with ease and a smile,
Happy to be someone's honor and pride.
It exists with no thoughts or dreams to become—
It is what it is, no less and no more.
After sunset, it is all the owner could want,
But by sunrise, sometimes they are gone all day long.
Bric-a-brac is still there; it's excited to be,
Unaware that the world might be cruel to it.
One day they could get used to it and throw it away,
Or resell for a penny, yet it's priceless, per se.
As for now, they admire its thinnest white skin:
It looks shiny afar, but too dull from within.
Bric-a-brac's just a vessel; it's hollow inside.
It contains what is gifted, spills back multiplied.
There are rainbows and lights if it's given some love,
Yet it is moved by an inch only once in a while.
It took ages to get in possession and own;
More time, too, has passed to trust in return.
Expected to be now a quiet trinket on a wall
Instead of a purpose: to be someone's all.

I’ve been okay lately.
Not perfect, but breathing.
The kind of healing where
you stop checking their profile,
but still hear their name in silence.

It’s not love anymore.
Not wanting them back.
Just… this quiet ache
that shows up
when the world slows down.

I miss the version of me
that existed when I thought
forever was real.
Not because of them,
but because I was softer.
Lighter.

Now, I walk steady.
I laugh without forcing it.
But some nights,
I still feel like junk left on the curb,
not because I still love them,
but because I remember what it felt like
to be someone’s home.