You'd think I'd learned my lesson,

So many years ago,

To never add anything new,

I've never let anything go.

Say something.
I’d love to hear
how your voice might break
the ice, that’s formed between.

Say something.
Say it out loud.
Let it quiet the war
raging beneath my doubt.

Say something.
Say you carry my scent home,
etched into your skin,
weathering the rain and storm.

Say something.
Say you see the hurt—
that this wandering heart of mine
is heavier than any witch-cast curse.

Say something.
Say nothing will change,
and I can follow you blindly
to where love is a leap of faith.

Say something.
Say this is enough for you.
That my pure-hearted longing
was only borrowed, not owed.

Say something.
Say that when the years have passed,
you’ll be no more than a forgotten weight,
and I won’t ache for you again.

it rests in a box — unworn, untouched.
a pink medallion on a thread,
carefully guarded, like a best-kept secret.
the tale of a flame sparks a sudden wonder—
pillows, scents, a shy, sweet blunder.
I’m haunted again by a senseless memory
of wine-soaked evenings—pleasant, temporary.
we were never anything at all.
no debts to pay, no love to call.
and still, your trace remains in my mind.
a bond of secrets, the silent kind.
I could throw it into the river, set it free,
so I no longer feel its weight on me.
but part of me still leans into the ache.

there’s a necklace in my pocket.

A heavy mist, a cruel, indifferent cloud
That chases off the tranquil air of peace
And chokes the sun of joy in darkened shroud.
A sickly heart summons this vapor swell
If suffering from a crack or missing piece,
By aching wounds confined to its own Hell.
Such misery I know extremely well.

I read a book once-
a story so captivating I couldn’t put her down.
Her edges grew tattered, her pages creased.
I etched my name into her front cover
so long ago you can barely see it.
I recite her words to myself even when she isn't near,
My favorite pages covered in notes only in my mind because I'd never ruin her that way,
Her paper so worn,
it’s as if I sharpened a blade that now cuts my fingers,
simply because I refused to stop reading.
I read a book once-
a story so captivating
I couldn’t accept its ending,
so I reread her, again and again,
like my heart could change the ink.