pronouncing beauty, eloquism i've dealt with,
a lit-up candle resembling a snowflake
in the middle of weary summer—
hearth, solitude, and soulmates

have particular habits,
like one i seldom right now:
never get my hair blow-dried
after having cut them down,
knowing i wouldn't go to those lengths again,
or see the styled version—
that's as real as your plains.

wouldn't be there the next day, would they,
when i wake up, a messy bedhead,
stars on my skin, nightmares stained in purpose—
guesses on that somewhere along the ride,
i accepted the chaotic messy half curls
and half waves of my dusted heathery heathens.

learn my language if you must:
private with a public intensity,
burning in paradoxes and flameproof identities.

there's multiple facets of how you live—
decisions, situations, ironies, as you will,
weaponize descent, set trademarked positions.

loathsome evil little creatures,
annoying in proof,
existing by mere chance—
i despise them all through.
but oh, do they deserve love?
perhaps, maybe they do—
from those who speak their words
and listen to them swoon.

deities settled atop the mountain of lies,
dancing in between the lines.
truth is a factor—
those eyes, they lie:
iridescent, accompanied with desires,
breathing vacuum, eating dust,
speaking their shares even as they shy.

spider webs curling upon oneself,
eight-legged creatures grinning at the fresh catch.
fakers faked their own fake selves,
hid secrets of the sacred mess in their chests.

i live for i.
give up, for you shall—
i've some offers to make.
but before, offering some tea—

oh, on the side,
would you like some scones dipped in earth, perhaps?

The clock ticks forward,
while I'm in rewind
gestures are point-less,
without exonerated
of their breath.

what an empty epitaph that is—
the art of noticing,
fragility of life.

does iron fear the rot
that overtakes it in the moisture the world provides?

it is what it is,
but does it have to be?

plots of the unknown—how can i thrive?

liminal space of some sort, where i've found myself this once,
and all the other once’s.
i’m still in the spirit,
but the dead don’t return.

can’t find a body—everyone has souls,
not a single empty one.

i have stars on my ceiling.

can you hurt a spirit,
wound it like you’d wound a body?

find me a confessional—
i’d like to admit to my sins.

long since it has felt
like grief lives in the walls of this room where i reside.

you write and you put it out
and it’s like baring yourself in the naked truth
and ugly to everyone outside.
i intend to stay hidden—
in a shirt twice the size of me,
a pair of pajamas i should’ve thrown away a while ago,
and the same damaged pair of glasses—
except they’re light
and they feel mine,
with the same teddy and old laptop.

needed this to be a list of prompts.
found it making sense instead.
my life’s woven this way—
of symphonies, perhaps i’ll leave unsaid.

uncertainty begging for understanding,
faith asking to be relieved.
i can fit into the same years ' worth of old clothes.
have i never really grown, all this while?

i’ll save this to push it down the bin,
choke as every word comes out to spill—
the darkest of secrets, epiphanies of the night.
you breathe in the love,
tend to forget its might.

half-eaten swiss roll, rotting with sour cream.
a modified bunny made out of clay.
purple tulips—
but they’re fake.
i like the color grey.
cherry bombing every lie.
kiss till you’re numb,
dissociate into the wild.

what speaks—and what swallows?
golden halo of the angels,
wings tainted in red,
singing siren sounds,
myths ruled over, unclad.

i broke my old pair of glasses.
they’re beyond repair now.

There's a lighthouse with little details
hops along is the ship that ignobly sails,
flickering shine denounces facedly frail
twisted holding the little mouse's tail.

Strong is the hail that smashes this snail
A burst of bubbles & a blurred blue whale,
decrypted now the box of posted mail
Buried rhyming aches the sailing slow.
How weeds strangle & gather to grow...

When the moon and the sun spell my doom
& leaves wrap around my neck,
When the tomb shall bloom in this room,
how the thieves perceive what they believe...

As the wish for lust spreads rust,
oldest seas rock the boat to shock of pleas,
As the flask drips seconds before the final dusk,
& oldest of trees violently shake their decrees...

How the lightning was comforting,
& a song on the radio echoed a whole life
How gripping hands rowed towards lands,
slipped the noises thundering a sting of choices.

A useless form of introspection
Supreme width with a lack of all depth
Feigning superiority while being ill tempered
Wielding as a bludgeon their empty philosophy
Despite it's weight it can break no wall down

It is defeated handily
By a sword without a blade
Taken down from it's height
Without firing a round

Struck by a simple kindness
Given to one in distress

Can you hear it?

The silence.

Everything begins there—
in the spaces between our breaths, where our words stumble, break apart,
and dissolve in our blood.

Everything begins in these silences,
when we simmer beneath the skin,
when our dreams bubble, brew, billow, then boil up into storms
that rage just beneath our calm—
when our thoughts crash against the cliffs of our hearts,
swept by the undertow of what we want, of what we hope,
and of all the things we cope with.

When I’m taking pauses while I’m talking to you, the silence isn’t empty.

There is an intimate maelstrom that swirls within me, pressing against my ribcage.

I feel the tides twist, rise, then fall—
I feel the ocean ebb and flow—
I feel its throb that thunders like war drums in my chest.

I feel… every word I hold back, every word I almost say
like a ripple that never crests,
like a wave that never breaks.

But I like silence.

Because, I also see a glimmer in it.
I see the shimmering sway of ideas.
And I feel… softness in their rolling—
softness like the backwash kissing the shore with its foam.

Sometimes… I wish I could just remain there,
nestled in that brittle fold of silence forever.

But sometimes also, the cotton of silence wrapping around me feels so comfortable
that my thoughts become deafening,
and they pull me down, trying to drown me within myself.

So quickly, in a desperate gasp for air—
I feast on noise.

And suddenly, I crave it.
The way the world roars. The way it crackles.
So I melt into its chaos.

I want to feel its pulse, its pound, its music.
I want to drown in the drunken hours.
I want to feel my heart rise with the loudest nights.
I want to cling to laughters that veil all the cracks I try to hide.

I want to stuff the silence—
as if only the noise could save me from myself.

Yet—no matter how hard I try to escape, the silence keeps coming back.

And every now and then,
Life punctuates itself with tiny bubbles of quiet.

…

Like this one.

…

But not all silences feel the same.

There are the ones I share with her…
the wordless seconds lost in her gaze.
The silent glances.
This all feels… different.

These silences make me whole.
Whole, and yet somehow… incomplete.

Incomplete because I often dream of chiseling
from the marble of these silences—
from the air that hangs between us—
all the words, all the promises,
everything I feel for her…

This small yet enormous statue
waiting to emerge from within—
from the rhythm of my heartbeat,
from the waves,
from the storms,
from every crack…

From this silence—
where everything begins.

And there I stand,
fingers trembling, mouth dry,
a chasm yawning between us.

And all I yearn for is to set it free—
This simple

“I love you”.