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The turning of years
With the turning of the year comes the weight of reflection. Silent, yet inevitable. Today I think of the quiet goodbyes, and the loud ones that echoed through 2025, like whispers in a rainstorm. Even when doubt clouds my heart, I wonder if endings are tethered to some unseen reason, a thread woven too fine to see, but which pulls us in ways we don’t understand The way the universe spins with purpose, sometimes sharp, sometimes soft; strategically breaking hearts, strategically mending us, it’s hard to tell if we’ll ever know what (if any) good reasons it may have. But I’ve learned that one has to learn to let go.…
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Haunting Sunday
Sunday blues this early morning, I hold my chest and close my eyes, wish I could escape from this war where dreams fade and silence lies The tea cools, the clock keeps tickingits hands like ghosts that never rest, In this hollow space I find myself slipping into a world that feels half-possessed The walls feel closer, the air thinner, a quiet ache I can’t ignore for all the places I’ve never been and all the things I can’t restore So here I linger, lost and fading between the should-have-beens and might, a tender heart forever waiting for Sunday’s dawn to give me light.
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Gentle white flags: I’ve come far
I forget why I hated you Between the changing of seasons, the tears and the fair reasons you gave me to despise you I forget why I hated you I’ve admired the immense kindness of others while failing to acknowledge my own it takes courage, sense, a heart of gold to wave a white flag when you’re thrown stones Even amidst the war you started I forgot why I cut you off and the poems I’ve written seem not enough of a reminder of the rage I once felt in my struggle to break the spell No point in fighting what I can’t remember though I can’t help but wonder…
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The better person, the wrong people
It’s not the low temperatures that bother me; it’s the burning on my skin It’s not the work I have to put in; it’s the lack of sleep It’s not the unanswered text; it’s the disrespect It’s not the itch; it’s the inability to scratch it immediately It’s not the Spring; it’s the sneezing It’s not the distance; it’s the waiting It’s not the empty stomach; it’s the grumbling It’s not the conversation; it’s the misunderstandings It’s not the aging; it’s the slow death It’s not the sunlight; it’s the sunburn It’s not the time; it’s the timing It’s not the deep waters; it’s that I can’t swim It’s not…
