I am a king of the lands
on the palm of your hands.

Lands not made of dust and stones,
for these lands are flesh and bones.

It’s not made of dirt and sand—
it’s much shinier than gold.

In these lands, I am the richest king,
for I feel your warmth and kiss your skin.

I am immortal in this land,
so don’t let go of my hand,

for your bones are my home,
and your flesh and your skin
are where my kingdom lies—
and where my love never dims.

I told others that your name

Is now a taboo; forbidden to be uttered

Because the mere mention of you

Hits me with everything we ever had

Hits me with everything we could have

Hits me to my core that I get stunned

By everything and anything of us 

So your name cannot be said by anyone

Unless it is whispered by me

Delete it
I keep telling myself
The mornings and evenings
I keep hovering
Over the action

Delete it
The photos and videos
The calendar we created
Your birthday
Our shared moments

Delete it
Just do it
A simple action
The smallest movement
One finger is all it takes

Delete it
And throw it all away
Permanently gone
Your name erased
Storage finally cleared

Delete it
But I am hesitating
And begging
To ignore that button
Another day, another excuse

Delete it
What a coward I am
Delaying the inevitable
It's not right
To still look at you

Delete it
I know I will, I promise
But even if I delete it
It's all stored in my heart
And how can I delete that?

What happened  
to slow-dancing  
in rain-slicked streets,  
to trembling fingers  
folding paper hearts  
sealed in wax-red promise?

Now,
we’re offered
chains dressed as charm,
red flags stitched into roses,
gaslight glows mistaken
for moonlight.

They call it love—
but it bruises.
It breaks.
It bleeds.

We settle
for breadcrumb kisses,
for apologies soaked
in venom and velvet.
We wear wounds
like wedding rings,
and call it passion.

What happened
to poetry—
to consent,
to slowness,
to souls peeling back
each other’s layers
like pomegranate fruit—
bitter, sweet, divine?

Now they want
power,
ownership,
ego-fed feasts
where one devours
and the other withers.

We’ve forgotten
how to write love
without trauma
as punctuation.

I don’t want
a story
where I’m shattered
then thanked
for still being beautiful
in pieces.

Give me
gentle.
Give me
growth.
Give me
a partner,
not a puppeteer.

And stop calling
toxicity
a twisted kind
of romance.
It’s not.
It never was.

Even when you haven't said a word in years

I am still here, thinking and caring about you