The autumn leaves feel so aesthetic—
a gentle filter draped on time,
a sepia kiss on our photograph,
making it look happily sad.

I see it like that.

For one day, we too shall fall
like dried leaves
from the tree of life and memory.
Old, pale-gold, fragile in form—
but never in love.

Don’t they look beautifully aged,
soft as whispered stories,
aesthetic in their quiet descent—
just like we will be, one day.

And if time must wither us,
I want to wither beside you—
to curl like a golden leaf
around your presence,
falling gently into forever.

We’ll rest upon the roads
where others pass—
some may pause and notice,
others will simply move on.

But we’ll remain—
an old poem written in leaves,
pressed between seasons,
forever soft in memory.

The mirror holds a fractured grace, glazed in melancholy.
A vintage gown drapes her sorrowed frame—
beauty hidden in the silence of old seams.
Beneath a spotlight sharpened by judgment,
she once danced to the hush of a blade,
each step a wound,
each twirl a quiet cry.
But when she bled, no hands reached—
only eyes, heavy with verdicts.
They mapped her scars
with whispers cloaked in care,
too late, too false.
Now, she does not flinch.
She gathers their dust
and builds a throne.
She wears her wounds
like medals sewn in moonlight,
her silence louder than their noise—
brave not because she is unbroken,
but because she walks,
unafraid of the cracks.

Let me hold you,
like fire curls around the air it needs.
Your presence stirs something in me—
a longing that no silence feeds.

I’d break for you, bend for you,
become shelter when the world forgets to be kind.
I’d give without question,
lose myself, just to see you find me.

So stay.
Always… be with me.

I yearn to lose myself in you,
like rivers surrendering to the sea’s embrace.
You are the petals—soft, sacred—
and I, the flower, drawn to your grace.

Desire glows beneath my skin,
like sun flares aching to begin.
I would fall into every shade of your shadow,
burning, if it meant you'd never feel hollow.

It begins on a night swollen with rain,
where clouds smother truth like wet cloth.
The stars—mute witnesses—are veiled,
while the moon rises, gleaming
with light it did not earn.

It did not defy darkness—
it inherited glow,
passed down like titles
washed clean of blood.

Scars mark its face—
not from survival,
but from ambition.
It hides them beneath stolen shine,
pretending to be whole.

Justice hangs in the clouds,
soft now, drifting.
They cannot strip
what charm has already excused.

The stars still burn,
but no one looks.
Their light dims
beneath praise
for the clever thief.

The ground is veined with sorrow’s trace,
Each crack a line time dared to write.
The grass—a ghost of greener days—
Now bends in grief, withdrawn from light.

The building stands in breathless hush,
Its lungs are filled with mold and spores.
Each wall a canvas time has brushed,
Each bruise a tale behind closed doors.

The windows blink with uneven eyes,
Some wide with hope, some shut in fear.
They do not guard, they do not guide—
They choose who may draw near.

The doors lean in like weary men,
Too tired to trust, too hurt to mend.
They’ve learned to greet the wind alone,
Unhinged by hands that should defend.

The swing is still—a cradle’s ghost,
A joy once carved in child's laugh.
Now silent, still, it mourns the loss
Of someone who won’t wander back.

The water waits in mirrored dread,
Reflecting all it dared to keep.
One touch, and it would spill its heart—
To break is easier than to weep.

Who did this? Who let beauty spoil?
Who priced it down to rust and dust?
“They cost too much,” the verdict read—
And so they left it, robbed of trust.

But this, this ruin breathes a truth—
It lacks not soul, but song and name.
It doesn’t need a coat of paint,
It needs someone to call it flame.

For listen close beneath decay:
A heart still knocks within the frame.
But friend—
This is not about the building.