You…

with your eyes fixed on fire,
on skies that never blink.
You’ve memorized verses,
but forgotten how to think.

You search the wind for commands,
while hearts beat beside you,
unheard.
You shout the name of God
but miss Him in a stranger’s word.

Look down, brother.
No-“ - look around.
See the dust,
the children,
the cracks in the ground.
That’s where truth spills,
quiet as rain.
That’s where faith lives
not in thunder,
but in pain.

There’s no ladder to climb,
no sky to ascend.
The divine is not distant
He’s the hand of a friend.

So loosen your grip.
Unfold your fists.
The kingdom you seek
already exists.

There was a girl who danced in the rain.
No one understood her or cared for her pain.
She danced out in the puddles all alone.
No sun in sight, for it had set long ago.
She used the thunder booms to dampen her screams,
As she pondered through the pitter-patter, what everything means.
Sometimes the others would spray her with a hose,
Knocking her glasses off her nose.
They’d shatter,
Masked by the pitter-patter,
They’d laugh at her,
Since it didn’t matter to them.
She was going through a storm with winds like a hurricane.
All that the others saw was a girl going insane.
All that she wanted was someone to listen to her cries,
But all that anybody did when they looked her way was sigh.
She danced throughout the night,
The lightning lit up the sky.
She would have danced till the end of time,
If he hadn’t stepped into her life.
He took her hand,
Stopped her from spinning around.
The rain fades away from where they stand,
And she finally feels found.
The girl who danced in the rain,
Found a partner for her ballet.

I don't think I earned my name
When I was born, my mother sighed
               the second she
           was finished crying
Saturate the atmosphere and mix me in
              with molecules.
Invisible. I'm only air.
At least until I am exhaled.
                   And then?
Carbon monoxide. Waste product.
            Respiratory excreta.

I don't think I want my name.
And, even though I love this place,
                    the fact remains
                    it don't love me
                  and I can't make it...

               They still get bored so fast.
         And I can't tell if I can blame them.
                     But it used to last
                        a little longer.
           Longer strides and clearer eyes.
        Aching less from years' less crying.

Ache with me? I'm begging you.
Stay awhile or call me crazy. Just don't keep me caught
                           on this line.
No more warm or candied lies, no jangling nerve, anxiety
or brutal, ****** truths out hunting.

I know I am not interesting, but mercy on me please.
                   don't leave me yet or tire...
But, no, I am uninteresting--the gravest crime of our day.

I don't think you know my name.

Feathers fill an earthenware vase
                                         Tall quills  
Suiting ink wells
Scribing words beneath candle
Signing treaty’s  
                           Secured with wax
The Magna Carta
The Declaration of Independence
                         Momentous things

But these are simple feathers
Collected for aesthetics
For smudging
For connection
   For reasons other than to write

In the hush between heartbeats,
I hear the echo of your laughter
a memory not yet made.

You, a whisper in the wind,
me, chasing shadows of a smile.

If you feel this too,
leave a word behind
let’s write our story together.

To feel deeply in this world is to bleed slowly.
It is to walk through fire with bare feet
while others praise the virtue of numbness.

They say: Don’t love too much.
Don’t care too loudly.
Don’t be the one who stays when it’s easier to leave.

But I have never been able to touch halfway.
My love is ruinous.
I enter like a cathedral collapses—
all at once, with smoke and sacred noise.

I fall in love like it’s a calling,
like God Himself whispered their name into my ribs
and told me:
Here. This one. Burn for this one.

And I do.
Even when the world hands me a thousand reasons not to.
Even when it tells me connection is a game,
hearts are currency,
and tenderness is a flaw
to be corrected.

But I was not made for apathy.
I was not made for clever texts and ghosted evenings.
I was made for aching truth,
for eyes that don’t look away,
for conversations that scrape the soul clean.

I do not want half of anyone.
I want the whole,
even if it wounds me.

Because what is the point of living
if we are not willing to suffer
for something sacred?

They say:
You care too much.
As if it were a weakness.
As if they have not read the Psalms—
as if Christ did not sweat blood in the garden
out of love for a world
that would spit in His face.

There is glory in feeling it all.
Even when it rips you open.
Especially when it rips you open.

Let them scoff.
Let them sleepwalk through their half-lives.
I will keep loving like it matters.
Because it does.
And someone must remember.

You showed me forests,
and didn’t flinch when I stopped
to admire a tree like it had something to say.
You didn’t mock the way I paused—
studying branches like ancient friends.
You let me wander
with soil on my fingers
and wonder on my face,
and you never asked me to be less.

There is something so frightening
about being seen—
but you did it
without making it feel like exposure.
You let me be wonderstruck,
let me be loud,
let me vanish into quiet.
You never tried to fix it.
You just made room.

You made me feel like I wasn’t wrong
for being soft
in a world that teaches sharpness.
You made me laugh like the world wasn’t ending.

You made space for my awe—
for the little girl in me
who never learned to stop wondering.
And around you,
my heart laughed like her again—
loud, joyful, barefoot,
free.

It felt like being allowed to exist
without needing to be interesting.
And I didn’t know how much I needed that
until you gave it.

We shared coffee in the aftermath—
those mornings,
warm sheets,
skin still humming.
You made us coffee.
I stayed in bed,
watching the light move across your back
like it knew you.

We didn’t rush to make sense of the day.
We let it bloom slowly—
our bodies folded into each other
like pages in a book
no one else would ever read.

Later,
I found seashells on a walk
and kept them
like proof
that something small and beautiful
can survive pressure and time.

In the evenings,
we filled our mouths with good wine and good food,
laughed like people
who had known each other
long before this lifetime.
You let me be bright.
You let me take up space.
And I did—
unhidden,
a little too much,
exactly enough.

I didn’t apologize for my joy.
You didn’t ask me to.
You only filled my glass
and kissed the corner of my smile.
You smiled like my brightness
wasn’t something to fear.

My heart laughed in those moments,
like a child who no longer had to prove her joy.
You didn’t just see me—
you recognized me.
Around you,
my joy felt safe.

We danced like idiots in the kitchen,
sang badly in the car
like the songs were written for us,
moved like no one was watching—
because somehow,
that’s how you made the world feel:
empty of judgment,
full of room.

And now,
when the days stretch too far without you,
my heart panics.
It wants to knock on your door,
not for answers—
just for nearness.

Your soul feels familiar.
Your touch—
not new,
just remembered.

Even the hard parts
feel like something worth returning to.
Not because it’s easy—
but because it’s real.

And when I think it’s too far,
too hard,
too uncertain—
I remember your voice,
and how your touch felt like déjà vu.

Whatever this is—
it isn’t fragile.
It isn’t imagined.
And I won’t cheapen it with a name.
I won’t insult it with a label.

But if you asked,
I’d meet you in the forest again.
And again.
And again.

He said:
Have you noticed how the sun commands the sky
bold, blazing, untouchable?
She smiled:
And how the moon listens
soft, steady, and never once needing to burn?

He said:
Fire must be a man - restless, hungry, loud.
She replied:
Then water is surely a woman
quiet, patient, but strong enough to carve canyons.

He teased:
Isn’t logic masculine?
She countered:
Only if emotion is feminine
and both are useless without the other.

He smirked:
Strength is a man’s trait.
She tilted her head:
Yet childbirth is not for the weak.

He whispered:
Desire… now that must be a woman.
She leaned in:
And control? That, my dear, is a man’s fantasy.

He said:
Betrayal wears a woman’s perfume.
She said:
And vengeance wears a man’s cologne.

He said:
War is written in a man’s script.
She replied:
But peace is cradled in a woman’s hands.

He paused, then confessed:
The world may have been built by men…
She completed him:
But it is held together by women.

They sat in silence,
neither victorious,
both understood.

Because every question seeks to conquer -
and every answer longs to heal.

Something in me always waited
without knowing what for.
A quiet space, a missing piece,
like a song I half-remembered
but never heard before.

Then you came,
like sunlight sneaking into a closed room,
like warmth I didn’t know I’d missed
until I felt it on my skin.

You touched thoughts I’d never spoken.
You woke up parts of me I didn’t even know were asleep.
You didn’t arrive… you were always there,
like a voice behind my voice,
a feeling in my breath.

So stay close.
Because when you’re not near,
I feel myself searching
not for someone else,
but for the part of me
that only exists with you.