My tongue's not my own neither the deepest longings
And neither these for pursuit nor grasping but to know
Of promises unknowable in the flesh but will be
For which given only glimpses of their shadows
And to know that before Time and for all times
Not futility as seeming for the Teacher is present
And so too the end's the beginning and vice versa
But to hear the Voice for in the dark the ears see

I ache for the curve of your lips,
the secret valleys where your whispers rest,
the gentle storm of your breath
against the quiet hunger of my own.

In the trembling air, I find
the ghost of your fingers weaving through mine,
their warmth a fragile truth
that lingers in the hollows of my palm.

Your body, once a map I learned by heart,
now drifts like a dream behind a veil.
I long to cross the distance,
to find your skin beneath the moonlight,
to trace the constellations of us
once more into the quiet rhythms of night.

Each moment apart is a wound,
an echo of love that fills my chest
until it spills into the open,
a river that cries your name
with every pulse of the tide.

Oh, let me fall into you again,
into the world we made
in stolen hours and hushed embraces.
Let my lips find yours
as if the universe depends on their meeting,
as if time itself stops to listen
to the story only we can tell.

This latter stage of life unfolds—  
so distant now from dreams once gold.  
Each sunset sinks, each storm is crossed,  
and whispers still of Loved and Lost.  

The days ahead, though yet unwritten,  
hold no warmth, no solace given.  
I stand beneath the waning sun,  
and find no comfort—  
there is none.

The Cardinal visits in the morning.
The Dove in the afternoon.

Each passing reminds me of you.

I don’t know why nature ignites my memory.
I wish you could tell me.

Love is as to a dry well,
The heart akin to the empty bucket.
I would be convinced that this is hell,
Had I not tasted of heaven.
Is this a shadow realm?
Like mirrors' reflections?
Is there someone like myself?
Aching & longing for one to reach out?
True in their intentions?

I turned longing into an art form
even poets couldn’t envy.
You said I loved the pain,
like I twisted every wound into a crown,
like I begged to be ruined.

You told me you’d **** me around,
said it like a warning,
but I heard it like a promise
I wanted you to break.

I had a picture of us in my head—
me, softer, more hopeful,
you, more beautiful than you knew,
with wild hair and laughter
that felt like home.

I still think of your hands,
hands that never held me,
but left marks all the same.
I wonder where they are now,
whose skin they’ve mapped,
what laughter they’ve tangled with—
and if they still carry the echoes of me,
whispering between the spaces they touch.

Now, every poem I write
is a bridge I burned,
trying to reach you—
but the ashes are all I have left.

I’ve gotten prettier, you know—
in the way scars fade but never really leave,
short skirts, boots up to my knees,
hair spilling like rebellion.
But still, the ache follows.

I want you to see it—
to scroll past my pictures and feel
the smallest sting,
to wonder if I’d still let you kiss me
if you came back—
but would I want you to?