You are still alive in me
The way your eyes would find me in the crowd,
How you would smile looking at me,
I was the prize.
You are still alive in me
The short walks, the long walks,
The sunsets, the fireworks,
I was the luckiest.
You are still alive in me
Your hands always trying to reach mine,
Every time the coffee slipped off mine,
I was the silliest.
You are still alive in me
In the long shadows,
In the dialogues of that action movie,
I was dramatic.
You are still alive in me
I’ll imagine her hands,
I’ll imagine her face,
I’ll imagine her smile,
I am defeated.

There lives a stranger in my head,
She sees everything I see,
Hears everything I miss.
She has long hair, endless that flows into a river
She has small eyes that disappear at night
She preys on love like ants on a sugar cube
She grows stronger in hurt
Her hands are long, wrap me up in an instant
Suffocate me with hate I've forgotten
She waits patiently for prey to present themselves
Destroys only what she loves
The rest of the world watches me
As I stand helpless

In the flow of my words, I found love.
Through these fogged eyes, I saw you.
Through this hated heart, I saw yours.
It was ever so radiant, so genuine, and so divine.
It lit up my world; from the darkness, I awoke.

I was butterflies when you saw flies.
I was lost when I saw you smile.
I ate up my words when they made you cry.
I was ready to eat myself whole
If it meant making you mine.

Then everything choked.
The world lost its color.
I lost the voice I never had.
Your silence made the dead of night recur.
I lost the only song that kept my heart astir.

In this flow of words, I found guilt.
I found heartbreak, and I found everything bleak—
Everything that I was never meant to build.
So I silenced the voice of my cries
That hummed when they saw the gold in your eyes.

In these days of melancholy,
My world feels dull, lifeless, and blue.
My mind races to the days when we talked,
So effortlessly, so full of vigor and hearts glued.
Now I see only the emptiness
And the coldness of a smoke-choked heart

But even in the quiet, you linger near,
A ghost of love I hold sincere.

White sands pile to form an island
Before dissolving in a deep cinnamon sea–
Dark and infused

The village, where I bought my first box
The gold, from the streetside, accenting
The steam, like incense on the bedside
And the mug, that you got me, for my birthday

Tea will always remind me of you,
I make a *** each day

It flew away.
I stood there, helpless—awfully aware
Of how close I was to the edge of despair.
I watched the wind steal the thread
I had held onto for so long with my bare hands.

My eyes darted across the scene,
The red thread dancing with the wind.
I turned,
Tried to catch it,
Or at least follow its traces
To find what I did wrong—

Only to see the ground crack beneath me.
The once peaceful house,
Burnt to ash.
Windows broken,
Wood burning,
Smoke rising—
Damage that can’t be restored.

Memories escape
With every last breath the house takes,
With every curl of smoke, every scattered trace.

It flew away—
The last bit of hope I had.
All I owned, burnt to ash.
The dreams I had now seem so small.
I lost myself
In the name of saving what I love..
But was it ever mine to hold?
-s

In the eyes of another man,
Cascading on the hearts quaking,
A tragedy that was to never be named,
The judgement of fate is his for the taking.

My misconceptions environ me, no longer a soporose dream,
These are the threads of my sanity,
It's a fetch of my hollowness, benumbed thoughts so grim,
Reprieve me, for I am the only kin.

Life revised to the memories inscribed,
Confined within the ageing strands of mind,
Seeking those left undefined,
To deconstruct the crux of life.

A new mould ignites, contrived from past morbidity,
Ever frozen in time,
The voidness of this excited debility,
Flares forever inside.

The chasm within, a shadow well-withheld,
It knows when something's amiss.
When all is lost, a lesion turning gold,
Retorting back the abyss.

these words retained, their authorship lost and unresolved,
but their siren sounding ringing, ding ding dinging;
resoundingly and unresolved:

we do not always, indeed, hardly ever safe harbor the true origin and
the true meaning of  our memories, but they come returning to us with accompanied shrouded shuddering, so oft, for frequent "EX'ing:"

Excellent exhilaration, expiration,
exhalation, variant explanations,
and unsatisfactory excitations but
never any finality of finale
exiting

the memories and the meanings
return modified, encumbered by
prior visionings, and the meaning
further twisted, their import
un lessened, until some resolution
is reached required retained
and a new memory is formed,
perhaps imagined,
perhaps not,
nonetheless
the siren sounds, the mind alerted,
we commence daily, nightly
to reimagine what we once imagined...even
endings...
nml

Real love doesn’t disappear, it settles. It sinks into the soft earth beneath our memories, nestling into the hidden folds of life where even time can’t quite reach. Silence may reshape it, soften its edges, but it never truly leaves. It lingers in a fleeting glance through a crowd, in a quiet song playing in an empty room, in dreams that stretch beyond the morning light. I know I have to go now, the lines have already been drawn across the stars. So I’m trying to follow them without questioning the path. Still, if the universe is kind, if fate forgets to lock the door, then maybe, just maybe, there’s still a chance we could find our way back to each other.