There’s a spark between your lips, and it lights mine
when we kiss— we’re a match: fighting against all
the ways we’ve tried to smother what we feel.
As the sun cuts through me, kissing my skin in
gold— but my tears taste like wine, and my hopes
lounge in the soft armchairs of dreams.

Now, I hate the silence when I’m left with myself—
scrolling through ghosts in my phone, each message
once charging me like a battery cell.

Now it’s just me, trapped in a cold heart's prison cell,
echoing for company, thinking of the days I was once
drowning  in a well. But all there’s left to say is a bitter,
shrugged,

                “Oh well.”

Dear IS,

Is it fair you hold the key to my drive— to make something, yet
make it too frightening to try? Your breath pretends to drift slow
in my ear, but beneath it, you’re clearing the field, planting seeds
of every fear you know will take root.

Is it the power lines I see wired from me to you— feeding your
hands as you siphon my strength, splitting my will from the things
I keep tucked deep in the vault of myself? As you arrange them like
weapons, calling each by name to remind me of the parts I’ve tried
to love but sometimes can’t.

Is it the way I urge, wish, and will to act— only for you to spool film
from my past, running old scenes like warnings until my courage
caves to your script? Your message is seen: as nothing moves unless
you approve.

Is that you, who rests on my chest like a stone, chastising, shrinking
me to the size of my doubts— small flaws made giant, slippery
floors of thought that tilt more than they ever should? Well… not
anymore. You don’t get to rule me, or write my rules.

Goodbye, Insecurity—as if I could ever feel secure in you.

Yours,
faithfully unfaithful,

Ex-companion.

When the rain falls, our troubles fall with it.
We glance to the left, to the right—
everything is spinning,
like a carnival cup twirling endlessly under painted lights.

Our prayers weave themselves
into the fabric of our existence,
leading us toward a wide, green field.
Even if the path bends away from us,
it will circle back.
Whether close or distant,
we are always drawn to the same center,
melting into what we know.

And when the waters finally recede,
your happiness will rise like a hidden sun.
The current will carry you
beyond the waves of your own memories.

May our journey be a long one,
gentle enough to bear the shadows of the past.

I believe we are still sailing
with the river’s true direction.
And when distance comes between us,
I hope all the good in me
is kept alive in your mind—
my name etched softly,
sweetly,
into the quiet chambers of your heart and soul.

Once there was a square ball.
Wait—what?
Do square ***** even exist?

She didn’t like being square.
All her friends were round—
free to roll anywhere,
kicked, tossed,
thrown into the air,
feeling that rush in their hollow bellies.

Why couldn’t she be round too?

People left her in some corner,
stuffing her with all kinds of things.
She hated it.

One day,
a round ball saw her sad face.

Why so sad?

I wish I were round like you,
she said,
and burst into tears.

The round ***** laughed.
Since when does a box want to be a ball?
And they rolled away with their laughter.

A box?

The round ball explained:
If you became a ball,
people would kick you,
throw you,
use you until you were worn.
But a box—
a box keeps things safe.
Important things.
Have you looked inside yourself?

Yes, said the square ball.
Just a bunch of old stuff.

The round ball laughed again.
Old stuff? Those are memories.
Letters, photos, little gifts—
pieces of love and longing.
When people miss someone,
they open you,
and you give them back their heart.

The square ball looked inside.
She remembered tears—
both joy and sadness—
whenever her memories were touched.

So I’m a box? she asked.
Born to hold important things?

Of course.
You’re an incredible box.
I wish I were you.

And the round ball rolled away.

The square ball looked inside herself once more—
and no longer wished to be anything
but a box.

Sometimes I think my verses are bare and raw.
The same way I believe I have a way with words,
I feel I don’t.

Sometimes I wish I could shape them,
so they wouldn’t be so direct—
that I could mold them
like water atoms between my fingers.

I don’t know.
Strange.

I just don’t want to be
so dry,
sometimes.

"Don’t judge a book by its cover."
Sorry,
but let’s be honest—
a beautiful cover
draws attention.

And your cover?
Does it draw attention?

Looking at your cover,
would I know the story you tell?
The food you love?
What you’d buy?
What you’d wear?
Who you’ve lost
or who you’re searching for?

Who would be your publisher?
Who would be your author?

Do you even like your cover?

Would you be at the bookstore entrance,
or lost among the shelves,
hidden between so many other covers,
passing unnoticed?

Thoughts on dotted lines – this is my right to write; stepping
into deep conversations just to say I had a shoe in. Maybe in
a thousand days draped in gold & silver, I’ll praise God again –
but do it a third time even when life feels like bronze, because
hubris slips in easy. So humour me this: as humility’s hands
still smudged in ***** pictures, like the past we pretend was
never framed.

To picture life outside the struggles that have stained your
heart, aiming for the middle of it all like a game of darts;
darting away from the past but also seeing red sometimes,
taking each hit with the sight of a bull’s eye: just another
reminder of the battles I’ve already fought.

And for the worth I am – more grand than the grand I would
have earned – the days still erupted like volcanoes, molten
interruptions to the places I didn’t belong. I bottled myself up
until I popped like soda, spilling lava into empty sentiments,
too deep to throw away, and too raw to leave behind.

Some moments do feel like *******, but life isn’t a game
with extra cute lives in a litter – but only pieces of ourselves
we shed like skin, littering the ground we walk on. And maybe
that’s how we breathe to live – by moving forward even with
bruised feet, never quite ready to admit defeat.