I decided
to remove myself
from the race
and no longer identify
as a piece of meat
in a meat market
but as a quivering bowl
of Jell-O—
fatherly
orange-flavoured
in aisle 7
bottom shelf.

They say
eyes are windows
to the soul—

Hers
are black holes
with lashes
not meant to open
just to collapse
whatever logic
used to pass
as safe.

A low mist hangs along the blades of grass.
The sky is pale, with light beginning to stretch.
A single crow moves along a broken fence.
Water collects in a shallow trail of hoofprints.

The trees stand evenly spaced beyond the field.
No breeze disturbs the vertical stems of wheat.
A spider moves along the ribbing of its web.
Dew drips from the unbent tip of a thorn bush.

The sun appears—low against the stone.

Ice splits along the river
water seeps beneath the crust.
Rooflines drip
giving taps on rusted gutters.
Snow withdraws from fence posts
exposing the buried nail heads.

Patches of earth darken—
a crow lands near a puddle
its shadow distorts in ripples.

Branches uncoil from ice sleeves
bark glistens under runoff—
sap climbs the maple's trunk
clear beads gather at the spile.

Spring exhales.

It is not just when the wind cuts
like the sharp side of a sigh
and the grit of the world
burns hard
against my lids.

It is when I am asked
too much of the moment—
the cordial crush of a hand
against the shy curve
of my wrist—

I close my mind
when the light rushes
through my lashes
when it spills over my knowing
too bright, too quick.
Memory sharpens
teeth biting down
on the soft parts of me.

The world turns
into a room too crowded—
promises clambering over each other
their breath pressing
thick and restless
waiting for me
to choose one to believe in.

And sometimes
it is only for the sake
of opening them again
to see the world sharper—
to let the colors
bleed into my seeing
to watch the light
forgive me
for looking away.

A truth
if told
often enough
becomes malleable—
not like metal
under fire
but like
ice melting
slow
on a thirsty tongue—
a fact
that wants
to be desired.

It bends—
not because
it must
but because
it’s a
self-inflicted
hunger.

Love’s
a road
with no end.

You left
a dent
in my thoughts—
not seen
but felt.

The door
sighs
at night—
no one
arrives
but the draft
you left
behind.

I said shaking—
it burns, it burns, it burns,
and she says, "Breathe''—

Easy like that
when the air tastes like fire
and my ribs are ribs
in the worst kind of cage.

The universe lines me up
shoots me down
with a cosmic rail gun—
no warning
an act of mercy—

I fall—
a constellation of bruises
bringing me down
telling my lungs
please
just once more—
breathe
just breathe.

I am
a gentle giant—
a mystic among men
men among leaves—
keeper
of the forest
Earth’s windmill
and sails.

Grief
has no bark here—
it fades
between root and rock
and turns
to dust.

I spill shade
as law—
leaf-light
into sacred clause.

Nothing is raw
long beneath me—
I am king
among men
men among leaves.

My love
for you—
quiet
slow and kind.

It drifts
where thoughts
once slept.

Benign—
but I wish
no blade
no cure
just your love
left untouched.

Not much—
grit without grip—
but give yourself
time.

Watch
what falls
from stone
build
a shoreline—
make
the smallest
grains
in you
blunt
the sea—

From
your inner fires
find peace
and
transparency
like sea-glass
under
moonlight—
proof that
soft
and fragile
things
endure
longer
than stone.

Sand—
yours to keep.

A square
is just a circle
that got wise—
refused to keep
spinning.

It learned
to pause
at each point—
filed down the
eternity
into corners—
sometimes
it helps
to have
a space
to lean into.

The pale gray ghost of the Past
showed up at 6:57 AM
with a text from my mother I can't bear to read.
I sat at the edge of my bed crying,
wearing a hoodie I swore I had thrown out—
It smelled like guilt and morning breath
saying ''You promised her you would let her go,
have a good life, son, and let your mother go''
The ghost kept the receipts in his mouth—
spit them out in my face like a bad joke.
I can't argue for her life now that she's gone.

The ghost of the Present has very bad timing
and a morbid sense of humour—
always knocking when my ex is in mid-panic,
screaming into a fridge of expired groceries
and empty bottles of wine.

He doesn't believe in boundaries
saying ''You know the guilt is killing her—
she never got over what she did to you.''
He has the rest of the cookies and milk
and leaves crumbs in my self-worth
telling me how ghosts love to play with mirrors,
and how he gave my ex the same faith as my mother,
reminding me how my son gets to live
the same life his father did.

The ghost of the not-too-distant future
is somehow already disappointed in me.
He leaves post-it notes in my dreams
that say ''Nice try, we'll get the next one too.''
He wears heavy boots on hardwood floors—
every step pounding out the countdown
saying ''they tainted my stomach too''
just so I could share their suffering
''You better hurry, time doesn't wait,
it just runs laps around your faith.''
I beg the ghost to take me instead
he laughs like clocks sometimes do—
tick, tock, tick, tock, judging me softly.

They force me to have dinner with them—
ghosts of Past, Present, and Future
the Past forgets to eat too busy gagging,
the Present orders two bottles of wine,
laughing, ''I have a date with your ex later''
the Future just stares at the menu sighing,
asking what's left of desirable flesh à la carte.

I sit there, ******* fork and spoon in hand,
wishing for silence, knowing that these ghosts
will not leave until they have taught me a lesson.

Devil in details—
you said love me as I am
then handed a list.

Hips whisper secrets—
my sadness dressed in leather
slides in the backbeat.

It’s easy
to fall here—
gravity greased
with pleasure
even light bends
toward the lip.

Nothing knows
its shape—
clouds split
like sighs
flowers open
on touch—
no resistance
in the vine.

Even hearts
forget the pew
of their bodies
slip sweetly
from their shells—
believing
this soft moss
has no bottom.

Love
on this planet
needs no ladder—
just the rumour
in the breeze
and open palms.

Don’t you dare do
the honourable thing.
Don’t you dare wrap your legs
around my head for a final goodbye—
some plush velvet convenience
about timing
or fate
or how you care
to not have me grieve
your slow demise.

Kick me
punch me with the truth
spit in my face
**** every god in sight
if you have to.

If you need help
I will torch them
to the ground—
but don’t hold my hand
while you disappear.

Make it ugly
make me bleed—
at least then
I’ll know it was real
at least then
I’ll know
I was more
than just a king
to begin with.

It isn’t
the gale
that teaches me
resolve
but the
small lean
inward
toward you—
the brace
not seen.

No banner
***** for
this kind
of grit—
this still sit
in your
storm’s spit.

Heart and muscles
don’t ripple
when spine
is steel
or ghosts gather
to light lanterns—
catch you
as you fall.

A stone
cannot be broken
but bent inside—
its fault lines
only strain
in harsh weather.

It does not
try to lift
or roll away—
just taught
to keep
its hurt
under hard gray
quiet.

It will stay
where it fell—
move only
if you kick it
or push it
away—
feeling nothing
but your hurt.

What bleeds
in you
only makes me
a stronger
boulder—
don’t hurt
just be calm
and come lean
against me.

Keep her safe—
from the rusted jaws of silence
dressed with politeness
from hands that reach without asking
and words that leave bruises
no one sees.

Keep her safe—
not with locking doors
but with hall passes
to break the ones
that keep her voice out.

Teach her to scream in full sentences—
to laugh without apology
to name the sky hers
and leave it alone.

Tell her the world is not a game
she has to lose to be loved—
that skirts are not contracts
that fear should never be
part of her dress code.

Keep her safe—
not because she is fragile
but because she is fire—
that fierce when caged
burns everything down.

Let her rise without warning
or need of permission—
like a blade not begging for forgiveness
and when she walks
let the ground learn her name
and shatter—

Keep her safe—
not small
not silent—
safe
and everything
else
she wants
to follow.

It isn’t clasp
or claim—
but calm
the kind of
leaning near
without
leaning on.

We’ve worn
our aches
like shoes
broken in
but still
wanting to walk.

We’re not
a flame
to chase
or cage—
we are more
a homecoming.

No shore
to plant
a flag—
just sand
to kneel
and play in.

How our
shadows move—
when we
don’t.

We lived
through
the howl
and
the hole
between
our words.

This
isn't
search—
it’s find.

It’s
love
put
to shame.

We were never
C-flat or B minor
just what's
between them—
each beat
slid past
like a sideways look
from one end
of our bodies
to the other.

We keep time
in reverse
chasing echoes
of ourselves
we spilled
into the spirit world.

Even the groove
is ours—
the slip
the soft fall
between meaning
and motif—
jumping
from one cloud
to another
saving our souls
one shadow at a time.

We won’t vanish—
we'll dissolve instead
into some
cooler kind
of quiet—
surfing the vibe
on your sofa.

Her laugh
is the pill
I didn’t know
I took—

A side order
with wings—
It lifts
it stings
it loops in erratic
dark circles
through my
cranial attic.

They call it
love—
I call it
a persistent
condition.

The cure—
I’ll tell you
if ever
I can
stop
dancing.

She moves like winter—
soft, slow,
cradling the air—
her steps are untraceable.

A life of corners suits her—
neat, unassuming,
never begging for light.

She keeps herself
tight within a space,
the way a bird
tucks its wings—
precise,
as though her presence
can speak just as loud.

When she speaks,
her voice skims the air—
pale as a white crow
sharp as double blades
of a cold November wind.

Her words land clean—
a snowflake dissolving
before you can catch
its pattern.

Just notice—
the warmth she guards,
burning coals
behind her sober look.

Her wrists,
fine and birdlike,
trace the outlines
of her wilderness.

It waits—
in the curve of her jaw,
in the way her fingers grasp,
tighter than they need to.

When I spread
her legs wide,
like the wings
of her hungry mouth—
she is the shadow
of the snow
on a ****** field—
softness
with deliberate grace
a river that never asked
to be seen.

I keep my love
in a locket of want—
a looped-back verse
with no clear track.

She is stitched in air
not flesh or fame—
a flare in the fog
too good to claim—
but I'm going to give it my all.

I read her smile
like open psalms misread—
each word devoured
each silence said—
sinking in deep.

She is a holy myth—
a touch I missed
a ghost in gloss
a good girl I can’t resist.

I bow to things
that never came
but not her—
I’ll light her shrine
I’ll sign my name.

She doesn’t knock
she doesn’t call.
She’s always in me
making me kneel fast—
I want her all.

This white crow I call
rapture in cathedral dresses—
just her—
and my devout heartbeat.

Write her stories
she said—
not the ones
I keep in
stitched-up journals
but the ones
that pace the
hall at night
barefoot
breathing fire—
the kind that scratch
at the back door of her mind
howling when it rains—
the ones
that make her
sleep
like a kitten after.

She doesn’t want heroes
She wants a king
with blood on his knuckles
half-naked crawling out
from under her bed.

She wants
my desires
asking all nice
and proper—
not dressed up
in Sunday talk
but raw
like teeth marks
on a bitten apple
juicy and wet.

Tell her about my hunger
she asks—
how it walks beside me
making me lick salt
from every side
of her collarbone.

She wants my stories—
the ones that bite
curl around her in the dark
and purr.

Write her stories
she said—

We never make the glass—
no martyrdom
no suicide blast
no cross or burning at the stakes.

Just hands
washing hands
or lint-picking a tank top
with unholy grace.

Our halos
are smudges
on kitchen tiles
kisses placed
on cracked smiles
a love so wild
but lasting as floor grout—
heavy lifting
twenty gallon tub
of toys.

Dancing
on the mattress bed
waiting for the grout
to dry.

I don’t
lash or flee—
I let the rough part
pass through me
without flinching.

I stand—
like a meadow
that doesn’t mind
the wind.

It’s not that
I can’t strike—
I see no reason
to bruise
what already bends.

A strength
to be still not silent—
not like a brave child
who lost a red balloon
but like a man
who lost ten thousand
and still stands tall.

So let us be—
with matching king and queen tantrums
and wicked dreams
in between
little weathers and wrecks—
the soft survivors
of hard things.

Together
we’ll stand what comes—
and I’ll show you how to stand
knee-deep
with a hundred stingrays
surrounding us.

She is already goddess fitted
this hungry shewolf
already made of something
that makes tides turn
passersby break their necks
for a tiny peek

But then—
somehow
she becomes more—
not by grand design
no flame or crown
just a shift
across her face
as if the air had just
let slip
her secret

And I know—
before she speaks
that I am there
somewhere inside
that quiet green ember
in her eyes—
turning her into a myth
into water

The night shrinks—
spills
with heavy strains

The bass
is a slow bruise—
it swells
sinks
a past
you pursue for more
like a palm
on an empty glass

Bodies weave
thick as smoke
thin as whisky
A dance of scuffs
small disasters
and lover’s heels scraping
slow sad circles
on the floor

The song doesn't end—
it fades
a smudge burnt on skin
a stain left
for mornings
that taste like regret