Writers die young,
but those loved
by a writer
live forever —
through scrappy handwriting
on yellowing pages
of verse and prose
full of adoration,
unconditional love
from an old soul
with a heart too big
for their own good.

To My First Love,

I was like wildfire,
and you were rain.
You steadied me,
and without even meaning to,
I fell for you.

You brought out the best in me-
lit me up with a different flame,
less angry, more passionate-
in a good way.
But maybe, that stifled your flame.

We were young and scared,
I wanted to run off,
follow the wind
and our too-big dreams,
but you couldn't.

Couldn’t just leave everything
for an uncertain dream.
Roots held you down
and I wasn’t strong enough,
to pull you free.

But maybe in another life,
Where we’d have more
than empty gum wrappers
and a crumpled dollar in our pocket,
We could be.

But you did good for yourself,
found something true,
someone who made you anew,
something I could never
have given
to you.

We’re two different people
from two inexplicably different worlds,
who can never truly
see things through the same eyes.

While I see,
a sky painted with beautiful and wild brushstrokes,
You see,
dilapidated high rises blurred by grey clouds.

I see,
a bubbling, bustling city of culture and people
While you see,
an overcrowded, noise polluted town.

I see,
the road to an unknown journey
You see,
cracked tarmac littered with potholes.

Because, while I like to daydream,
you like to plan
While I loved like a storm
you loved like a drought,

I lived in the little things - like inside jokes and playing the guitar
while you dreamt of more, like weddings and a fancy car.

you and I are from two different worlds
that can never be combined,
So with that I leave behind
something that could never quite be defined.

Faster.
Hurry.
We’re gonna miss it.
Leave me alone.

Your laugh—
like wind chimes—
gives me chills,
a feeling I never
want to forget.

One day,
I may sit by myself
and not remember
my loved ones.
I may struggle to walk.
I’ll be done
chasing dreams.

But right now—
slow down.
Stop running.

Let me look at you
a little longer.
Let me absorb your face—
because even if,
someday,
you seem like a girl
from a fever dream,
allow me now
to memorise every bit of you
while you’re still
tangible to me.

Because time
is something
you and I
cannot run from.

Bright stage lights,
adrenaline rush,
ear-splitting screams
for my little rocker—
not so little now.

I see her on the big screen,
but I remember
when she cried—
stinging fingertips,
frustrated fretboard fights—
couldn’t get the chords quite right.

Then she learned her first riff,
played it on repeat
seven days a week.

I watched you
take down the posters in your room,
pack your amp in a beat-up case.
I stood in the driveway,
watched the cab pull away—
rain streaming down the windows,
deep breath, hands shaking.
You didn’t look back—
and I hope you never do.
You had bigger places to be.

A buzz,
and a roar—
the first chord rings out,
wild screams echo,
and I’m just one in the crowd.
You don’t see me anymore,
but through all the noise,
I was your first fan.