Night Night

 

Familiarity breeds contempt.  You like people because you don't know them. People like you because they don't know you. The more you spend time with a person, the more cursed you are to seeing them as human. 

Put the weight of the world off your shoulders. You are not a pet.  When I look up at the sky, I see my past staring back at me—but this time, with softer eyes. Tonight, the sky is more black than white, and for once, I let my guard down. The stars blink twice, and the world seems calm. The breeze carrying an unfamiliar charm, and what’s absent now is my storm. Tonight feels less lonely. Less ghostly, more homely. The streets are muddy, the lights blurry—just the way I like it. I hope I never grow tired of sunsets, and or leave nothing unsaid. May I never find solitude boring or curse the rain when it’s pouring. I hope I always wish upon shooting stars and stop picking on my scars. I hope I stop painting my bedroom walls red, and stop anticipating the end. Maybe, one day, I’ll learn to enjoy what’s right in front of me.  Finally, i hope i continue to love people even when i don't like them. 

Am I allowed to do something I know is wrong, something against my conscience, just because I want it? Is that what they call a guilty pleasure? I promise, no one will ever know. In the end, isn’t it about what weighs more—regret for not doing it or guilt for having done it? It’s exhausting being placed on a pedestal. That’s when I realized, I can always grow my hair out. I can make mistakes—maybe in secret. That way, nobody has to know.

Someone once told me to write, even if it’s just a single line a day. They said it would protect me. I start poems I know I am probably never going to finish yet I don't give up. I scribble. I scribble and scribble. And scribble away.  It seems strange—how we spill ourselves onto paper, hoping it will make everything go away, like we’re trying to purge the pain. But does it really? Perhaps it doesn’t, but maybe that’s not the point. Is that what we actually want? Maybe not. After all, would you truly want to lose the only attachment you have to those memories? You hold onto the pain because it’s all that’s left, and what’s the point in writing it away when it’s the one thing that keeps it alive? Sad people make me sad, but happy people don't make me happy.

You playing the piano, sipping your espresso

And the smell of your tobacco, on me while i talk Van Gogh

I forvever shall be the primary keeper of our memories

One’s you’ve forgotten with such ease, i wear them like accessories

Nothing ever really leaves me, whether or not you agree. 

Remember our promises by the sea? 

Should have known there was no guarantee. 

Im still trying to calm the aching. Is this entertaining? 

There is a wound i cant stop picking. 

I know i’m not heather. But i have written too many letters. 

And it’s bad weather. The pressure is beyond measure.

 From me, life has taken more than its share, throwing me in eternal despair. 

(I got to know today that people actually read my blog.)

Why?

 ...

Not all prayers are answered, 

we don't always get what we want, 

good things don't always happen to those who wait, 

the universe doesn't always conspire to help us have what we want, no matter how hard we want it, 

Not everything happens for a reason, 

things don't always go as planned,

 you don't always get what you give, 

ways don't always show up even if you have the will, 

everything that happens may not always be for the good, 

and it's not always the good people who die first.

...

“God must be doing cocaine” plays on my Spotify.

“ ..can anyone really blame him? He probably needs an escape…”

I stayed

 

While my head lay still upon your chest,

I knew, for once, what it meant to rest.

I was home

not a place, but a heartbeat,

not a room, but your breath beneath me.

You said you cared

but not for long.

And I, naive, believed the song.

We traded silence, pulse for pulse,

and in that hush, I lost my pulse.

One glance into your searching eyes

a sunrise I’d dreamt in other lives.

You asked for trust, and so I gave

the heart I swore I’d always save.

I placed it, bare, into your hands

like a prayer the soul misunderstands.

You smelled like oceans, pine, and fire

the kind of scent that stirs desire.

You drove at night with windows low,

and twice, you cooked

You were warmth after a ruthless storm,

a place where grief forgot its form.

You said, "Everyone I love, they leave."

So I stayed, hoping you'd believe.

Maybe I just needed to be needed.

To prove that pain could be unseated.

(I liked your hands)

But did it mean nothing?

Are you running now, again,

hiding in that hollow den

while I bleed through every then?

If you wanted to leave,

you could’ve just said.

I wouldn’t have clung while I slowly bled.

I asked you to bleed onto me too

but maybe only iron and sweat

are worthy of your truth.

I tell myself you were a dream,

but you echo in every in-between

each breath, each street, each midnight ache,

a ghost I never meant to wake.

(Did you ever really care at all?)

You were never mine to claim,

and maybe that's my quiet shame.

Still, they told me:

"Write when the wound is wide."

So I chose ink—

not pills, not pride.

Will I ever stop conjuring you

in poems, in dusk, in shades of blue?

At least I stayed—

even when it hurt to hold.

Even as my palms went cold.

Even when my soul said go,

I waited—

for a sign,

for a no,

for something.

But I didn’t want to leave.

Not yet.

Not while love still clung

to your silhouette.

 

The Echo I Named You

I hope one day you realize

you were the first to break me clean,

not with rage, but with retreat

and no one else will ever do it

with such quiet precision.

I never handed this power

to fickle boys with borrowed hearts.

Only you were given the fragile pulse

I guarded too long,

beating too loudly for its own skin.

You were the mirror of all

I’d never become

flawless in your stillness,

while I spilled,

too loud, too much,

never enough.

You were easy to adore,

impossible to hold,

and I still choke on the truth

what we had has fossilized,

a relic in a corner of memory,

gathering dust

where love once lived.

It’s a lump I can’t swallow,

nor spit from my throat.

And sometimes I wish you'd say it

say I mean nothing,

just so I could begin

a lifetime of learning to hate you.

I repeat—learning

because I never could.

You’ve already threaded yourself

through the veins of my memory.

Stitched between breaths,

haunting every quiet.

Let me remind you,

in case you forgot

life is a cruel sculptor,

and I was clay in your hands.

You never saw me.

You saw the echo of dreams

you wished I could become.

But never me

the raw, trembling girl

who kept loving you

in secret, in storm.

You mastered the art

of giving just enough

breadcrumbs of affection

to keep me starved

and tethered.

You made me feel

unlovable,

when really,

you simply didn’t want

to love me.

You gave me drought

and made me forget

I was the sea.

I wondered,

had you ever been loved

as a child?

Or did it drown you, too?

Your smile—rare,

and never for me

hid stories I was never meant

to know.

A mystery,

never solved.

You punished me

with silences sharp as glass,

with looks that struck

like verdicts,

as if love was a crime

I kept committing,

knowing the sentence.

You gave me secrets,

and I grew my hair long

to veil the ones I carried.

You gave me wounds,

and I wore them like heirlooms

shining in places

you never looked.

Still,

I always wondered

what scars did you hide

beneath that practiced stillness?

 

Break

Never has a night felt shorter before

You peaceful in your side of the bed, reading Rumi

Something in my chest tightened as I closed the door

Can these 5 years ever be restored?

That warm sweater still so cherished, 

Was that a sign she wants to be together? 

I always knew what she wanted

Her eyes spoke what she pondered. 

Why not anymore? 

I pictured myself running towards her

Her cheeks turn red as I near

What if she doesn't want to be left alone?

Or maybe she just wants me gone.

Glad I closed the door and let her be

I needed to engage in a soliloquy 

and maybe so did she. 

I sat on the hammock outside

Why does it feel like I've taken cyanide? 

How do I keep my thoughts occupied 

No, there's no way I can let this slide. 

My parents adored her

Never was there a life which was better

When along these years did I forget her? 

Maybe since she started talking about Peter. 

I defend myself. 

Where did it all go wrong? 

Can these passing hours prolong? 

Have we run out of love?

I see a bird, is that a dove? 

She hated it when I smoked

I always took it as a joke 

Was this because I didn't help fold clothes? 

Or didn't surprise her with a rose? 

Is now too late to say sorry?

Why does everything feel so blurry? 

Why have I suddenly started to worry? 

Why and for what was I in a hurry? 

I wonder if there's still time to make amends

Starting to feel something intense

What's gon happen tomorrow 

Remorse? Divorce? Is that what we need?

The Quietest kind of Cruel

 

Not many would quite understand,

But unreturned love is a no-man’s land.

It hollows the heart with a velvet blade,

A quiet ache that doesn't fade.

Just thoughts of you I cannot hold

Burn brighter than the stories told.

You say you care—but what’s the cost?

A love half-given always feels lost.

You know my wants—you’ve heard me plead,

Yet play naive and watch me bleed.

A smile that knows it hits like flame,

Yet never once you speak my name.

Your smile, my drug—I sip it slow,

A poison wrapped in subtle glow.

Your eyes, twin seas I gladly drown,

Each time I fall, I fear I’ll drown.

You’re sleeping now, in warmth and peace,

While I lie tangled, torn to piece.

Wrapped in your world, so unaware

Of all the storms you made me bear.

I heard you love the rain.

 Since then,

 I've never slept during a storm again.

You adored tragedy,

 chased mystery

 and now, here I am,

 your perfect agony.

You crave the tragic, seek the strange,

But never knew how deep I range.

If monsters thrill the core of you,

Then why not love this monster too?

You speak of shadows, shiver slight,

Afraid of something in the night.

But what if I’m that haunted shade

The silent debt your soul has made?

You know I watch, you know I wait,

Yet still you keep that distant gait.

You love the game, the push, the stare

You hold me trapped between despair.

You like to know I ache and burn,

You light a match, then never turn,

And I, the fool, still beg and stay,

While pieces of me slip away.

Forgive my stare.

 I don’t mind your glare.

 I can’t help it I swear.

What you’re doing—it isn’t fair.

 You hold me

 in a place

 between chaos

 and calm,

 between obsession

 and prayer.

And I stay

 because your silence

 is still louder

 than anything

 I’ve ever known.

Always Near

I know it’s hard

but don’t mourn me like I’m gone.

I still love you

only you, and all along.

Your hands are etched upon my face,

I ache for warmth, not time or place.

This heart, unhomed, drifts without grace,

For nowhere else can fill your space.

I tasted heaven in your breath,

Now I sip silence, sweet as death.

Even gods paused, touched by envy

To see me love a living deity.

Don’t wound me with those mournful eyes,

Even death offered no disguise.

Is this what loss is meant to be?

A quiet kind of reverie?

Yet I’ll return for that one smile

That sunrise grin, worth every mile.

You in tangled sheets at dawn,

Your lips a song, your sorrow drawn.

That creased brow, a midnight storm,

Your hair undone in its softest form.

You flip through pages, worn and old,

Each word a ghost, each line I hold.

The kitchen waits—your hunger hums,

That curry rhythm still softly drums.

Faint Fendy trails across the air,

I breathe you in—you linger there.

A glass half-full with crimson hue,

Still sips the world the way I knew.

My letters—love notes dressed in ache,

But your soul has more than it can take.

Don’t search for me in distant skies,

I’m here—in things that never lie.

The broken vase, the bent old spoon,

The room where sorrow hums a tune.

I’m the static in your lullaby,

The hush before your deepest cry.

The faded book with yellowed ends,

The silence shared between old friends.

The song that plays, you hum along

My voice concealed within the song.

And though you weep into the rain,

I’m the rhythm beneath your pain.

So, tell me love, can death divide

The hearts that once beat side by side?

I’ll be there when shadows creep,

When wine is poured and dreams run deep.

When silence feels too sharp to bear,

You'll find me waiting, always there.

In laughter lost, or kitchen clatter

In all the things that used to matter.

When fear returns, or sorrow nears

I’ll be the whisper in your tears.

No grave could ever hold me tight

I’m stardust in your window light.

I’m every “almost,” every year

I never left.

I’m always near.