#lamentation - Hello Poetry

I’ve watched a thousand fireflies since I was a child, learned early how light survives the dark. I wore lies like a second skin, laid my heart carefully into a casket, stacked each wound at the edges of myself, where pain feels easier to ignore. My anger, when it surfaced, was small, almost embarrassing. Once, my naïveté passed for joy. I let everything I had run quietly into ruin, hurt people who never deserved it, called it circumstance. Then you arrived— unassuming, gentle. I let myself disappear again, hid behind half-truths, mistook warmth for safety, mistook comfort for courage. I knew your name, the way you loved, the way happiness rested naturally in you. For the first time in a long while, my soul felt acknowledged, like a brief kiss on something long forgotten. Still, I stayed guarded. You offered trust I had never learned how to give. You loved Messi, Barcelona, football in all its chaos. Listening to you speak, my heart forgot how to behave. For a moment, I thought I was free. Everything felt musical— time softened, distance shrank, closeness grew sweet, effortless. You gave yourself fully, and my insecurities answered back, sharp and careless. That night— your excitement, packing your things, heading home— my demons spoke louder than decency. I forgot respect. Crossed lines I knew better than to touch. It ended there. What followed was numbness, a reflection I didn’t recognize— not innocence, just a man who should have known better. I hadn’t felt that way in years. This version of me cut the sound from everything. I don’t call it love. I don’t know if I’m allowed to. It was something real that I threw away with both hands. I don’t remember your face. I have no photos, no messages. Only the way you made me feel— and how easily I proved I wasn’t ready. “Love” feels too small a word for what passed through us. Some stories don’t need closure. They end by teaching you exactly who you are.

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Jan 24

Jan 24, 2026 at 2:44 PM UTC

copium_4me

One that got away

I’ve watched a thousand fireflies since I was a child, learned early how light survives the dark. I wore lies like a second skin, laid my heart carefully into a casket, stacked each wound at the edges of myself, where pain feels easier to ignore. My anger, when it surfaced, was small, almost embarrassing. Once, my naïveté passed for joy. I let everything I had run quietly into ruin, hurt people who never deserved it, called it circumstance. Then you arrived— unassuming, gentle. I let myself disappear again, hid behind half-truths, mistook warmth for safety, mistook comfort for courage. I knew your name, the way you loved, the way happiness rested naturally in you. For the first time in a long while, my soul felt acknowledged, like a brief kiss on something long forgotten. Still, I stayed guarded. You offered trust I had never learned how to give. You loved Messi, Barcelona, football in all its chaos. Listening to you speak, my heart forgot how to behave. For a moment, I thought I was free. Everything felt musical— time softened, distance shrank, closeness grew sweet, effortless. You gave yourself fully, and my insecurities answered back, sharp and careless. That night— your excitement, packing your things, heading home— my demons spoke louder than decency. I forgot respect. Crossed lines I knew better than to touch. It ended there. What followed was numbness, a reflection I didn’t recognize— not innocence, just a man who should have known better. I hadn’t felt that way in years. This version of me cut the sound from everything. I don’t call it love. I don’t know if I’m allowed to. It was something real that I threw away with both hands. I don’t remember your face. I have no photos, no messages. Only the way you made me feel— and how easily I proved I wasn’t ready. “Love” feels too small a word for what passed through us. Some stories don’t need closure. They end by teaching you exactly who you are.