the wind blew a little harder today—
all for a chance to kiss you.
i guess the coldness of days gone by
do not scare you at all.

now I whisper to find you,
in the smallest of cracks,
in the pauses between breaths,
in the vastness of the evening breeze.

nothing could ever make me
stop searching for you.

nor will i ever want to.

The handwriting warm glimpses
Pushes the grief that always follow
The charge you consume
Plucks the soul you Bloom
the cold it holds beneath
drugs the ill that scars beneath
standing there with the whisper of fales that overwhelms
And and it grows until there's nothing underneath

There’s something about late September
that makes me want to text people
I only miss when I’m too tired to lie.

There’s a moth in my mouth again.
I try to sing and it *****.

Some nights I rehearse conversations
with people I haven’t forgiven.
Some of them are alive.
Some of them are me.

I keep a list of people
I swore I’d stop dreaming about.
I keep dreaming anyway.

I talk to no one
like they’ll answer differently this time.
I wake up with a wingbeat
pressed into the backs of my teeth.

I think I’m leaking
something no one taught me how to name.
It leaves stains on my straws
It fogs the mirror before I do.
It answers to my voice
but only when I’m not using it.

There’s something about late September
that makes everything feel returned,
but not forgiven.
I don’t text them.
I let the silence say maybe I meant to.

The year breathes awake,
like the first blush of April.
A tenderness unfurls, slow and deliberate,
mirroring the hesitant green on the branches.
My heart, a landscape softened by spring rain,
finds its echo in your quiet strength.
A love less like a sudden storm,
more like the persistent warmth that coaxes life.

The distance between us, a winter frost receding,
leaving the ground fertile for something new.
Our entwining is not a sudden grasp,
but the gradual weaving of vines reaching for sunlight.
In the unfurling of each leaf, I see a promise,
a resilience reflected in your gaze.
This bond, not brittle, but flexible and deep-rooted,
like the enduring heartwood beneath the blossom.

Each petal that drifts down, a silent offering,
carries a piece of my being, a whispered devotion.
The air itself hums with a gentle longing,
a melody only my soul recognizes as your name.
I trace the delicate veins of a new leaf,
and find there the intricate map of my affection.
This is not a fleeting infatuation,
but a rooted yearning that stretches towards you.

The breeze carries not just air, but my unspoken words,
a soft sigh that journeys across miles.
My heart beats a rhythm that only finds completion
in the imagined cadence of your own.
Until the moment our paths converge again,
I find solace in the enduring promise of spring,
a quiet certainty that this love, like the season's return,
will meet its fullness under a shared sky.

With a compass of sheer curiosity, I roam,  
An oxymoron guiding me to unknown realms,  
Chasing the edge of a world that’s never shown,  
Looking for paradise at every place,
Only to find in the void, a blank space.

Each question a spark, a thread to unwind,  
But this thread, it tangles, no answers to find,  
In the labyrinth of thought, I'm lost, confined,  
Curiosity's compass, leading a confused mind.

In the edge of a cliff, I stand up straight.
I see a mirror, staring back at me is my own fate.
Reflecting not my face, but just my shadow,  
The more I chase the light, the more I grow hollow.

In a labyrinth of thoughts, where every twist and bend,  
Feels both familiar and foreign, a journey with no end.
In the tangled vines of confusion, making things worse,
Engulfed in this darkness, being one with the curse.

They see me as mysterious, a figure shrouded in mist,  
But I wander the same paths, where exits don’t exist.  
Chasing a ghost, an echo of who I thought I'd be,  
Yet finding only illusions, hopes that deceive me.

I search for something lost, that perhaps was never there,  
A fleeting dream, a whisper, dissolving in the air.  
Endlessly I walk, seeking what I cannot see,  
A labyrinth of my making, where I’m never found to be.