You hate my printed tees and high top shoes,
you disapprove that I still wear my toque in June.
Always saying that I ruin the plot too soon.
You don’t know your worth, you are my Earth
my sun and my moon.

It’s how you get my smile to touch my cheek,
and the way you get my knees feeling weak.
The ten things that you hate about me,
are outnumbered by the things you’re loving.

You hate my shark shorts even though they’re cozy,
you can look past it because you’re the only one who truly knows me.
I’m tripping on words, the ones you prefer
because you know I’m clumsy.
You say I’m too loud, or my head in a cloud,
but the way that I feel I’m always showing.

It’s the way that you look me right in my eyes,
and how you still manage to give me butterflies.
The ten things that you hate about me,
are outshined by the things you’re seeing.

You hate when my hair gets too long,
and when my cologne smells too strong.
You hate when I exaggerate during fights
and when I snore during late nights.

Just the way that our fingers interlace,
and how you get that look on your face.
The ten things that you hate about me,
are just quirks, you’re making it work,
as you still get to know me.

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5156835/three-things/
(a poem of presence)

I could be your echo,
soft and steady,
a voice to lean against
when your own feels tangled.
We’d sit with the mess,
name the knots,
and breathe through the “what now?”
No fixing - just listening
until the fog thins.

I could take one thing,
just one,
from your crowded shelf of “later.”
Sort the papers,
fetch the milk,
untangle the tech that won’t behave.
You rest.
I’ll be your hands for a while.

I could make you a pocket of peace:
a walk, a poem,
a playlist that hums (like your favourite socks).
No agenda, just joy.
Just the reminder
that you are allowed to feel good
for no reason at all.
And if you’d like,
I’ll hold your name in prayer,
not as a fix,
but as a quiet flame.
A breath. A whisper.
A way to say:
you are not alone.

the scent of perfume that still lingers on me
heavy and pungent, yet loving and caring.
the roses i gave to you on that monday morning,
a reminder, everlasting and pure.

remember it once, twice, maybe a third,
but don't forget

the roses that wilted I replaced anew,
life that brought contours to your smile.
the constant reminders of safety:
did you get home?

remember these little gifts
i had given even when saddened or tired.

the will to stay even as you push me away,
painful, but love nonetheless.
the promise i held "you, just you
did i write infatuation with my heart."

remember the gift:
don't forget my love.

Ephemeral things.

The beauty of the sunset is ephemeral,
Yet, it leaves an impression on one’s soul.

The beauty of a rainbow is ephemeral,
Yet, it lingers— a reverie in flight,

Why, then, are beautiful souls so brief?
Do they burn too fiercely, too brightly?
Does the world drain their essence,
Leaving only echo in night?

Are ethereal things not meant to stay?
In this dreadful, weary, sphere?
Was it just a dream?
Was it just like a dream?

Every purest element in life reminds me of you
cause I know you feel the magic too
The moon, stars, warmth of a gentle sun
sound of the wind, trees
those special spots in the forest where we run.

L.C.

Bric-a-brac high on a shelf, it might fall
On a floor with no carpet, might break and be gone.
It may slither, get lost, or be taken away;
Nevertheless, it just can't walk away.
It may gather dust, be moved, kept in hands, or removed
Somewhere else when the owner does not want to look.
Bric-a-brac is sometimes boring; it stands there so still,
Does not change by the hour its colors or kin.
It stays in one place with ease and a smile,
Happy to be someone's honor and pride.
It exists with no thoughts or dreams to become—
It is what it is, no less and no more.
After sunset, it is all the owner could want,
But by sunrise, sometimes they are gone all day long.
Bric-a-brac is still there; it's excited to be,
Unaware that the world might be cruel to it.
One day they could get used to it and throw it away,
Or resell for a penny, yet it's priceless, per se.
As for now, they admire its thinnest white skin:
It looks shiny afar, but too dull from within.
Bric-a-brac's just a vessel; it's hollow inside.
It contains what is gifted, spills back multiplied.
There are rainbows and lights if it's given some love,
Yet it is moved by an inch only once in a while.
It took ages to get in possession and own;
More time, too, has passed to trust in return.
Expected to be now a quiet trinket on a wall
Instead of a purpose: to be someone's all.

Sometimes I tend to be a catalyst,
Carrying things to light,
Rooting them deep where they belong.

Nothing bad,
It's what I do,
I'm proud to ferry,
The things they carry.