Our eyes were constellations,
scattering questions
that language could never catch,
until laughter arrived
an ancient river
finding its long-forgotten sky.

Your presence was rainfall
after centuries of thirst,
a melody wandering home
to an instrument
that had dreamed of sound
in silence.

Absence was not a thief,
but a sculptor
its chisel filled the fractures
with molten gold,
kintsugi of the soul,
where brokenness bloomed into light.

Three years were not lost,
but spun into threads of becoming;
so when we met again,
it was not a return,
but a rebirth
a dawn that had been waiting
behind the horizon.

And in that eternal heartbeat,
I understood
time is powerless
against roots that grow
in the hidden gardens of love.

The morning hums a gentle tune,
dew still clings where night was strewn.
A sparrow writes across the air,
its wings a brush, its song a prayer.

The sun climbs slow, with golden hands,
unfolding light across the lands.
Shadows shrink, yet softly stay,
teaching night must give to day.

We rise, we fall, like tides at sea,
yet every dawn rewrites the key
a chance to sing, to dream, to try,
beneath this vast forgiving sky.

She moves, and the air bends toward her
a secret gravity, invisible yet undeniable.
Her hum drifts like a hymn carved into the sky,
each note a cathedral where my heart kneels.

She is a hummingbird in human form,
small, radiant, fleeting
yet every beat of her wings
creates a storm inside me.

She is my North Star, constant and burning,
guiding me through the wilderness of myself.
She is a droplet of water touched by sunlight,
splintering into rainbows too pure to hold.

I see her as heaven draped in mortal skin,
and every glance is a pilgrimage,
every second a surrender.

When she weeps,
the world inside my chest collapses heavier
than the ruin of my own sorrows.
When she is silent,
I sit with her in the hush,
where quiet itself becomes a healer.

Yes
I fear losing her as fiercely
as a mother clings to her child.
And I love her with a devotion
that rivals that same holy bond.
It may not be motherly love,
but its weight, its eternity
is just the same.

The dragonfly hovers,
born of storm-fed ponds,
its wings catch sunlight
where shadows once drowned.

It teaches—
from fleeting rain
can rise
a life of light.

My branches cradle stars for you.
My leaves spill secrets into the wind for you.
My eyes hold galaxies in bloom for you.
My sea sighs into shorelines, aching for you.
My bird spins through storms for you.
My love stretches like dawn ; endless, for you.

Under the sunlight, I am only a candle,
shaking in the arms of the slightest breeze.
It’s pretty, like youth they speak of in poems,
but it never lands the same on me.

Anger, comparison, insecurity, my heavy breath.
Tears and these headphones
are the only air I know how to breathe.

Loving myself
harder than teaching fire to bow to the earth.
Gravity feels kinder than grace.

Yet in the caves where no one remembers the way,
I can still paint the dark in gold.
I can still make the cold feel warm.

I am needed.
I am loved.
Sometimes.

So tell me
do I give my light to this moment,
spill every flame into the night,
or keep it sleeping in my chest,
fearing the day when morning arrives
with a sun too cruel to touch,
and a rain too tender to notice
when it drowns me?

Wear the logo.
Sip the overpriced latte.
Smile like you belong.

But deep down
you traded truth
for a tag.

Fake gold glows too,
until it rains.

Don’t plant your worth
in damp soil
just to grow rice
for someone else’s plate.

Luxury?
Maybe.
But only if illusion is your favorite fabric.

Real talk
your worth isn’t worn,
it’s lived.