Take me as a definition: a surface-level heart that drowns in
deep thought, quietly pondering love, quietly grieving loss.
Loss not just for someone; a loss for most words. Because
when you’ve been dealing with a lot, you stop explaining
and start enduring.

Take me, for example: yesterday I had a conversation with
myself, but it sounded like I was addressing the ugly stuff,
the versions of me I don’t post about. Getting a little older,
I now feel the subtraction of duration settling in my bones.
It’s not pain exactly. It’s more like time knocking without
waiting for permission.

Multiply that by multiple misfires, all the times I believed,
in my head, that I’d finally found the one. Now, I’m left
divided. Not between people, but between the stories I told
myself; the truths I keep avoiding. Insanely rich with poor
results — "wait, that doesn’t add up." As that’s the math of
memory: it never balances the way love promises it will.

Still I need a leg up, not just to raise the hopes of this tired
heart, but just to step out of my despairs. Because lately,
I’ve been third-wheeling the very idea of love; a tagalong
to a party I used to host. And when it comes to falling for
someone with a previously broken heart, you learn quick:
it doesn’t come with a spare.

I’ve realized love either helps you make strong memories
or leaves you with the memory of a sus stain. You can’t
always tell which until it’s already on you, and by then
you’re already trying to scrub out that which you hoped
to sustain.

The Arithmetic of Almost-Love.

mysteries
left unsolved—
scattered like ashes
across the floor,

like tracing smoke
to find the arsonist
who burned it down
to bury regret.

the evidence runs deep.
and the mirror
can’t lie
any longer.

he floors the pedal,
gives it his all—
but the past
clings like fire
in his rearview.

one last getaway.
just one more line
to cross—
because crossing them
is all he’s ever known.

he’s spent his whole life
living a lie.

You can’t be everything to everyone —
You’ll run out of breath just trying to be heard.
Water dead plants with your last drop of clean water,
And still be called selfish for not flooding the room.

You’ll give so much; your name starts sounding
Like “help me.” You’ll leave the party empty,
Because you fed Everyone but Yourself.
And somehow, the silence you sit in is still too loud.

Even your worth will start asking for validation
You yourself don’t have the strength left to give.
Be everything to you, before you become —
Nothing to anyone. Not even you.

I don’t have a license to drive anyone crazy — but I do have a mind
that keeps itself driven. Always on. Dreams at any given. And
I’ve felt the kind of love sickness that lingers too long — where
obsession is the disease of craving for something that was never really
yours to begin with. Envy stays green, growing tall like something
proud. But even weeds grow healthy, and we still call them plants,
right?

I’ve been tied to other people’s hopes — roped in by their strong
faith. "And I still try to believe." But saying that out loud feels like lying
to my own mouth. So I daydream in the interest of peace, trying not
to wake the ghouls I’ve tucked under my thoughts. I’ve had people
toss my advice like a smooth stone in their hand; pretending it’s
weightless, like their hands aren’t made of sand — like shallowness
could ever carry any real depth. But it just echoes the sea.

I always notice the ones who aren’t really seen. The unread...
The Blue and Grey ticks. While others get their messages read and
ignored, I’m just the message never opened. Still typing, still thinking
of the right words. I’ve come to represent the depressed, the lost, the young — the ones really trying to figure this **** out.

Pause yourself if you need to cuss, but I swear it’s not a curse to feel
like **** sometimes. It just means in that moment, you’re not feeling so clean. Not broken — just not fitting the costume.

Sometimes you just need one reason — just one — to feel like
yourself again. Not a version of you tailored to fit in. And that’s why
it suits me better not to force anything. So yeah, I wear shorts to
church — because life is too short, and I don’t see the point in
dressing up pain to make it feel prettier. Especially when it’s always
some casual man speaking formal hopes, trying to iron your sadness
into something presentable. As if comfort should only come with a
collar.

But I’m not here for that. I’m just here trying to feel real —
and maybe make peace with the parts of me that still feel unseen.

Don’t close your eyes on your dreams—
you’ll lose sight of what you believe.
The will of your work is measured by
the work you’re willing to put in.
As I live in a house of emotions,
courting words to plead my case—
bleeding through a see-through face.
A quiet ache, always on trial.

Knowing that the high-and-mighty
Christian is the easiest target to bring down.
Careers cut short— because in short, they
never really knew the Lord.

And me?

I live like the world’s greatest plot twist,
my mind a tornado of thoughts—
every turn unexpected,
every breeze loud with questions.
I’ve known the chill of a cold finger turned
trigger. And felt the weight of a sharp tongue
used as a silencer. As it’s easy to shoot yourself
down the same way you shoot others—whether
whispered or screamed out loud.

But those who follow their worth,
instead of searching for it in the crowd—
those are the ones who stand out.
Aloud.

Sinking tears –

 feelings don’t fall,
  they crash
   like glass hearts
    meeting pavement.

Your chest?
 A sunken place.
  No bra strap to hold it up –
   just white linen,
    innocent for a moment,
      until it slips
       in front of eyes
       like mirrors
        reflecting
         every scar
          painted on your skin.


Sandcastle kisses,
 built soft –
   fragile –
     on lips that no longer
       believe in forever.

Yet you speak
 like royalty,
   saying boldly:
    “Love me for what I am –
     not just who you think I’ve been.”

Not a princess.
 Not a saviour.
  A mess.
   A wreck.
    A fallen queen.

Wearing her cracked gold crown
 like a forgotten joke –
   that still makes your heart ache
     when it returns
      in the quiet between memories.



Bones for time –
 you pick at every hour
   like it owes you something.
    Tick.
      Tick.
        Snap!

The clock breaks
   where your mind does.

You may live in the day,
   but you breathe
     in the night.

Freer beneath moonlight,
  where shadows stop asking questions –
   and silence
    finally listens.

I've also felt
all windows were watching
all walls were listening,
I'd also felt at that time
streets and footpaths were speaking
and veils were lifting.

I've felt
even when I was walking
even when I was stopping
all trees and birds
sky and stars
bosoms and bangles
were seeing everything.

It's true
in that hesitation
whether to stop or proceed
get off or get over,
all roads had appeared
unfathomable.

It's true
I had also read
on the face of surroundings
some broken
some disconnected
some cracked expectations.

I've touched some sentences
and have kissed some words.

Eyes that obstruct the road can be removed
but what happens when hearts block the passage?
that's why
I've also pretended not to see
the windows and walls.

At such time
it has also seemed to me
there've been conspiracies against me,
search for instruments
to hit me in my words
has also been going on.

I've also felt
those eyes and looks
have also been sending a river
of the flowers of feelings somewhere,
raising a hill of the aromas of imagination.

And have experienced at such time
my mind sleeping in the joy of love.
and have felt some arid passion taking me somewhere
lopping off sensitive branches of life.

At such moments
felt my mind wake up with the temptation of life
gathering courage for flowering beauty
even in the desert of living.

Do not think
I've reached where I am now
by slipping like a landslide
or evaporating like a cloud.

I've climbed up here
holding the hilt of time's sword
after driving it
into my tender heart.

Whether anybody comes to convince me or not
a part of my life does always ache
arresting my chest.

-०-

The cold has a memory —
it lingers in the corners of empty rooms,
settles into the spaces you once filled.

No matter how many layers I wear,
it finds a way to my skin,
a whisper of what used to be warmth.

The windows rattle,
the floor sighs under footsteps that aren’t yours,
and I tell myself it’s just the season.

But the truth is,
it’s not the winter that chills me —
it’s the memory of you.