I notice the exact moment your composure begins to fracture for me. It always starts in your breathing — slower at first, then uneven, little pauses caught between anticipation and surrender. I stand close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin, close enough to hear the soft sound that leaves your throat when my hand tilts your chin upward. That quiet, trembling noise is almost reverent, like your body is answering me before your mind can even catch up.
You obey so beautifully when I speak softly.
I tell you to stay still, and you try, though I can feel the effort shaking through you. Every breath turns fragile beneath my attention. Every glance you give me feels heavy with trust and hunger, with that deep craving to be guided somewhere darker than your own restraint would ever allow. I watch your lips part as another helpless sound escapes you, half moan, half surrender, and I swear I could live inside that moment forever.
There is something intoxicating about watching you yield willingly. Not because I force it from you, but because you ache to give it to me. Because every whispered command wraps around you like velvet chains, tightening slowly until all you can focus on is my voice and the heat building between us. You react to praise like it is oxygen. One low murmur of approval and your entire body softens, another shaky breath spilling from you as though you have been waiting desperately to hear it.
I move carefully with you, savoring every reaction. The subtle arch of your body toward my touch. The tiny whimpers you try unsuccessfully to swallow down. The way your pulse jumps when I lean close enough for my words to brush against your skin. You make the most beautiful sounds when you stop fighting your own desire, when you let yourself sink fully into obedience and trust me to hold the weight of it.
And I do hold it.
I hold every trembling exhale, every needy little gasp, every shiver that rolls through you when I tell you how good you are for me. I let the silence stretch just long enough for anticipation to consume you before I speak again, low and possessive, watching the sound of my voice alone pull another soft moan from your lips.
By then, you are already lost inside me completely.
Eyes heavy. Breathing broken. Every inch of you tuned to my approval like it is the only thing keeping your heart beating steadily. And when I finally praise you again, when I let my hand rest against your skin and tell you exactly how perfectly you surrender for me, the sound you make in response is almost enough to ruin my own control.
Your beauty is dangerous in the quietest way. It doesn’t arrive all at once like lightning; it settles slowly into my bones, deepening every time you speak, every time you reveal another soft truth about yourself. The desire grows because it is not only your body that calls to me, but the way your soul moves beneath your skin. The way you care. The way your laughter lingers in my head long after the room has gone silent.
I think about you constantly, in fragments and floods. In the middle of conversations, in the silence before sleep, in the aching moments between one breath and the next. You have become a beautiful interruption to every ordinary thing. I crave your presence the way flowers ache toward sunlight, helpless to resist what makes them bloom.
And maybe that is what terrifies me most. Not how badly I want you, but how naturally it happens. How every piece of who you are pulls me closer without effort. Your beauty opened the door, but it was your heart, your mind, your softness, your fire that made me stay there, endlessly wandering the halls of you.
Your lips meet mine and stay there, not rushed, not asking, just knowing, and the world softens around the edges as if it’s slipping out of focus on purpose. The kiss deepens slowly, like something unfolding rather than beginning, warm and unsteady in the best way, until breath turns uneven and shared between us.
There’s a quiet rhythm to it, a gentle pull and return, mouths learning each other without words, each second stretching longer than it should. My hand finds you, not searching, just tracing, following the heat that seems to rise wherever we touch, as if your skin remembers me before I even arrive.
Everything feels fluid, unguarded, like we’re dissolving into the moment instead of holding onto it. The closeness builds without urgency, just a steady, undeniable warmth, the kind that lingers and deepens, until there’s nothing left but the slow, consuming pull of you and the feeling of not wanting to stop.
You are perfect to me in the way the morning is, effortless and impossible to recreate. From the quiet strength in your eyes to the softness that follows when you let your guard fall, every detail of you feels intentional, like the world slowed down just to get you right. I find myself tracing you in my mind again and again, as if I might miss something if I don’t.
There is a pull in you I don’t try to resist, something deeper than want, something that lingers. A quiet craving lives in the space between us, where I imagine your lips meeting mine, not rushed, not fleeting, but certain, like it was always meant to happen this way. And in that thought alone, I feel everything I’ve been trying not to say.
In this cracked sky I am meant to burn in your stars fall in your arms with my eyes shut whisper my dreams in your ear reach for your pitch black secrets and feel the magic from your tearful moon
In this cracked sky I am meant to entwine to your untamed scars breathe in your heart pounding shadows serenade my breathtaking desires reach for your defenseless clouds and feel the silhouette of your tearful moon
“Your love is awakening, my vulnerability isn’t shaking, and our love has a spectacular view, I had no idea I would fall in love with all the parts of you”
In this cracked sky I am meant to graze your rattling fears carve out the magnetism from your eyes mutter my fantasies within the moans reach for your tragedies with my tongue and feel the agony of your tearful moon
In this cracked sky I am meant to melt from your invincible wind breathe out my uncontrollable love grip on to your bellowing fascination reach for your deepest and venomous sin and feel the drops of mourning of your tearful moon
“Your love is absolutely real, where my senses are heightened and I can truly feel, I love what we have become, the tears of the moon disappear as we fall deep in love under a smothering sun”
I adore your compelling comprehension and character I admire your aspirations and ungodly inspirations I treasure your heart felt ballads and surreal stanzas I could fall in love with your shimmering truth
Love me like a vase of flowers Love me like a summer rain Love me like the stars cherish the sky
I love how I am sipping your kindness and devotion I love how you unravel me and am drenched in my emotions You bring out the best in me, allowing my scars to be free
“I savor the intensity and the profound conversations, I taste the connection snd showering affection”
I adore your vibrating tenderness and curiosity I admire your lion like strength and stunning conviction I treasure your silhouette rhymes and castles in my air I could fall in love with your pure intentions
Love me like a museum worships a painting Love me like a river embraces the calm Love me like the clouds relishes the sun
I love how I am sipping your kindness and devotion I love how you unravel me and am drenched in my emotions You bring out the best in me, allowing my scars to be free
“I savor the light when my shadows were in the dark, I taste the sparks and desire with you in my heart”
I’m not craving attention but your lightening connection. I’m not craving lust but the magic in our distance. I desire the conversation that is entwined and pure. I’m not craving anything hollow but the hunger within your desire. I’m not craving a fixation but the beauty of your gust.
I love how you make me feel, the ecstasy burning is real. I love how the flames surrounding never seem to get low, your brilliance always has an extraordinary glow.
I’m not craving the physicality but your alluring intelligence. I’m not craving your nails but your provocative touch. I desire the thirst and the hurricane between our fire. I’m not craving your luscious skin but the magnetic pull between us.
I love how you make me feel, the magnificent sensation is real. I love how the blaze within continues to rise, your affection was always smoldering in your burgundy eyes.
Invigorating flare, divine storm Slipping into a harmonious dimension wrapped up in all of your inferno vicious kisses, candy like touches immersed in your tactile desires, my muse Taste the hunger of the blazing star
And the electricity ripped the champagne sheets And the sparks lit up in the tragic skies
A liquid sigh, voluptuous wildfire gliding into a psychedelic mist surrounded by your musical sirens delightful growls, exotic whispers sparkling in the moonlight, my muse craving the thirst of the blazing star
And the provocative motion burned And the ricochet sent shockwaves
whiplashed tension, pulsating snake spiraling into a smoldering spasm toes curling, spellbinding tongue breathtaking havoc accelerating oblivion touching nerve endings, my muse yearning the skin of the blazing star
And the enigma was quite exquisite And the mesmerizing fever glistens forever
At 2:35 AM, Karina Larkin is awake in the way people become awake when something inside them has already stood up and gone to the window. The house is quiet but not asleep. It breathes the low, familiar breaths of waiting—floorboards holding memory, walls keeping secrets, the refrigerator humming like a promise it never finishes. Outside, the streetlight paints the living room in pale gold, and dust drifts through it like slow snowfall. Karina sits at the edge of the couch with her feet tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug that went cold an hour ago, listening for a sound she has been rehearsing for six months.
Six months is long enough to learn the weight of absence. Long enough for mornings to stretch and evenings to fold in on themselves. Long enough to discover which corners of a room collect loneliness and which ones refuse to let it stay. When he left, she told herself she would be brave in practical ways—pay the bills on time, water the plants, answer questions with calm certainty. She did all of that. What she did not plan for was how love behaves when it is asked to wait. How it paces. How it sharpens. How it grows more articulate with every quiet night.
She checks the time again. 2:35 AM. The numbers glow like they know something she doesn’t. The hours since midnight have been a soft procession of memories: the way his jacket always smelled like outside, the way he reached for her hand without looking, the way he said goodbye at the airport like it was a comma instead of a period. Six months ago, she stood in a crowd of departures and told herself that love could survive distance if it had somewhere to land when it came home.
Karina learned to mark time by small rituals. Coffee brewed for one. Two plates taken down, then one put back. The way the bed insisted on the shape of him long after it should have let go. She learned the sound of her own footsteps at night, the creak near the hallway that always startled her even though she expected it. She learned that courage sometimes looks like staying soft when it would be easier to harden. She learned that longing can be gentle, that it can sit beside you like a cat, purring, insistent, refusing to be ignored.
At 2:35 AM, a car passes too slowly. She lifts her head. The sound fades. Her heart settles back into its practiced rhythm. She exhales and laughs quietly at herself, a sound she has made many nights now. Hope, she has discovered, is a muscle. Use it too much and it aches. Don’t use it enough and it forgets what it’s for.
She remembers the first week he was gone, how she kept the lights on too late, how she filled the silence with television she didn’t watch. She remembers the second month, when the ache dulled into something manageable, something she could carry without announcing. She remembers the fourth month, when she found herself smiling at his name on her phone without checking the time, when absence had stopped being an emergency and started being a condition. Through it all, she kept a careful ledger of moments she would tell him about when he returned—how the neighbor’s dog learned to open the gate, how the old oak dropped a limb in a storm, how she fixed the sink herself and felt impossibly proud.
She checks the time again. Still 2:35 AM. The clock does that sometimes, holds a minute like it wants to feel important.
Karina rises and walks to the window. The street is empty, expectant. The moon hangs low, unembarrassed by its own brightness. She presses her forehead lightly against the glass and lets herself imagine him driving through the last miles, hands familiar on the wheel, thoughts finally allowed to arrive where his body is going. She imagines his smile, the one that starts on one side first, the one that always made her feel chosen even before he said anything. She imagines the weight of him crossing the threshold, how the house will recognize him before she does.
Six months ago, they made promises that were practical and unromantic. Call when you land. Text when you can. Don’t forget to eat. They didn’t say anything about rings or kneeling or forever because those words felt too fragile to ship across oceans and job sites. They trusted the quieter vows—the ones that survive weather and time zones, the ones that show up even when no one is watching.
A sound interrupts her imagining. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a car door closing with the unmistakable certainty of arrival. Karina’s heart leaps, stumbles, rights itself. She does not run. She walks, because this moment deserves steadiness. The front door opens, and there he is, framed by the night he has finally finished traveling through. He looks thinner, older in the eyes, more himself in the way people become when they have been tested and returned intact.
They do not speak right away. They step into each other as if gravity has been rehearsing this reunion since the day he left. His arms feel exactly right, exactly remembered. Her face fits against his chest like it was designed with this purpose in mind. She breathes him in—road, work, the faint echo of places she has never been but knows intimately through his voice. The house exhales with them.
“It’s late,” she says, because someone has to say something, and because time has taught her to respect itself.
“I know,” he says, smiling into her hair. “I tried to hurry.”
They pull back just enough to look at each other, to confirm what touch already knows. His hands are warm. His eyes are wet in the way that suggests gratitude rather than sadness. He sets his bag down like it no longer matters, like the life he carried away has been successfully delivered and signed for.
They sit on the couch, the same one she has kept her company for half a year. He notices the mug, cold and abandoned. He notices the way she has changed her hair, the way she carries herself now. She notices the new lines at the corners of his mouth, the confidence that comes from surviving something difficult without becoming bitter. They talk in short bursts at first—safe details, familiar ground. How was the flight. How was the drive. Did you eat. Each question is a bridge, each answer a step closer to something larger.
At 2:35 AM, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pauses. Karina feels the air shift before she understands why. He looks at her with a seriousness that has been earning its place for months. He takes her hand, the left one, the one that has reached for him across continents without knowing it was practicing.
“I didn’t plan to do this tonight,” he says, and she knows immediately that this is not true in the way people say things to give themselves courage. “I wanted to wait until morning. I wanted it to be perfect.”
She smiles, because perfection has never been their language. She squeezes his hand, because some truths need encouragement.
“I spent six months thinking,” he continues. “About work, about distance, about what it means to come back to someone and feel like you’re coming home. I thought about the nights you stayed up, the mornings you handled alone, the way you made space for me even when I wasn’t here to fill it.”
He reaches into his pocket again and this time does not hesitate. The box is small, almost shy. He opens it with care, like he is handling something alive. The ring catches the light from the streetlamp and throws it back in a way that feels intentional, as if even metal understands ceremony.
Karina’s breath leaves her all at once. The room tilts, steadies. She feels the weight of six months compress into a single moment that asks to be answered. She thinks of the nights she went to bed early because hope was exhausting. She thinks of the mornings she woke up proud of herself for making it through another day. She thinks of the love that waited with her, patient and uncomplaining.
He lowers himself to one knee, not because tradition demands it, but because gravity does. Because some questions carry enough meaning to pull the body toward the ground.
“Karina Larkin,” he says, and the sound of her name in his mouth feels like a blessing. “Will you marry me?”
Time does something strange at 2:35 AM. It widens. It softens. It gives her room to feel everything without rushing her through any of it. She laughs first, because joy needs a release. Then she cries, because relief has been waiting a long time to speak. She nods before she answers, because her body has already decided.
“Yes,” she says, finally, clearly. “Yes. Of course.”
He slides the ring onto her finger, and the fit is exact in the way things are when they have been imagined enough times. He stands and pulls her into him, and they hold each other like people who have crossed something wide and lived to tell about it. The house watches. The streetlight approves. The clock blinks and moves on, satisfied.
Later, much later, they lie in bed and talk in the low voices of people who do not want to wake the future too soon. They plan nothing and everything. They laugh about how tired they are. They marvel at how simple it feels now that the hardest part is over. Karina traces the ring with her thumb, learning its presence, its promise. She thinks of all the nights that led here, all the waiting that turned out to be a kind of preparation.
At 2:35 AM, Karina Larkin learned that love does not waste time. It uses it. It stretches it. It asks it to carry meaning until meaning is ready to arrive. She closes her eyes with his arm around her and feels the quiet certainty settle in. The long night is over. Morning can take its time.
Once upon a fearful morning the light crept in like it had something to apologize for, thin and pale, as if even the sun had grown tired of announcing itself. I lay awake, not because I wanted to, but because sleep had finally decided it was done pretending to care about me. The ceiling stared back with that familiar indifference, the kind you learn from years of being misunderstood by people who claim they know you best. Somewhere, a clock ticked with the arrogance of certainty, each second convinced it mattered more than the last. This is how the lullaby begins—not with comfort, not with warmth, but with the quiet realization that consciousness is a debt that keeps compounding.
I used to believe mornings were promises. I used to think the day was a clean page, waiting patiently for the pen of intention. But pages stain easily, and intention is often just desire dressed up for an interview. Now, mornings feel like interrogations. The light asks me what I plan to do with the damage I’ve accumulated. The air asks why I’m still breathing it. Even the floor, cold and honest, asks me to justify standing. I answer none of them. I shuffle through the ritual instead, because routine is the closest thing to mercy a jaded mind can still trust.
This poem is not meant to soothe you. It is meant to hum quietly in the background, like a refrigerator in an empty apartment, reminding you that something is still running even when nothing feels alive. That’s what a lullaby becomes when you’ve outgrown sleep—less a song, more a mechanism. Less melody, more survival. I hum it to myself while brushing my teeth, while staring into a mirror that keeps aging faster than my memories. The mirror knows things I refuse to admit. It knows how many dreams I’ve folded neatly into excuses. It knows how often I’ve called surrender “acceptance” because it sounded more mature.
I learned early that hope is a beautiful liar. It speaks softly, wears the right expressions, tells you to wait just a little longer. And you do. You wait through relationships that hollow you out, through jobs that teach you the price of your time, through nights where silence becomes loud enough to bruise. Hope doesn’t leave when it’s done with you—it stays, perched on your shoulder like a smug witness, reminding you of everything you believed it would fix. That’s when cynicism arrives, not as a villain, but as a tired friend who brings coffee and tells you the truth without poetry.
Still, I write. That’s the joke. I write knowing words are inadequate, knowing metaphors don’t pay rent, knowing poems won’t resurrect the parts of me that learned how to disappear. I write because it’s the only place where my contradictions are allowed to sit at the same table without fighting. On the page, I can be gentle and bitter, hopeful and exhausted, loving and resentful—all at once. The world demands coherence. Poetry lets me fracture honestly.
There was a time when love felt like discovery. Every touch was a revelation, every promise felt hand-written by fate. Now love feels more like negotiation. Terms and conditions apply. Trauma sits between two people like a third body, listening carefully, taking notes. I’ve loved deeply enough to know how dangerous it is, and lost deeply enough to understand why people build walls and call them boundaries. The lullaby I sing myself now doesn’t promise forever. It promises survival. It says: rest if you can, leave if you must, and don’t romanticize the wounds that almost ended you.
Night used to scare me less than morning. At night, expectations sleep. The world dims its demands. Failure feels postponed. But even night has learned my name. Insomnia arrives like an uninvited editor, revising my past, highlighting mistakes, circling moments I thought I’d buried. I replay conversations with alternate endings. I apologize to people who no longer exist in my life. I argue with ghosts and lose every time. This, too, becomes part of the lullaby—the rhythm of regret, the chorus of what-ifs, the bridge made entirely of silence.
If you listen closely, you can hear the city breathing through my window. Sirens in the distance, laughter that doesn’t belong to me, engines rushing toward somewhere important. The world keeps moving with or without my participation. That knowledge used to terrify me. Now it almost comforts me. There is relief in irrelevance. There is peace in knowing I am not required to save anything today. The poet is not a hero. The poet is a witness, sometimes unreliable, often exhausted, always trying to translate feeling into something that won’t evaporate by morning.
I have been called jaded like it was an insult, as if awareness is a flaw. But jade is stone. It survives pressure. It remembers heat. If I am jaded, it is because I have been shaped by impact. I have learned to distrust shiny answers and loud certainty. I have learned that people who speak in absolutes are often hiding from their own doubt. The lullaby I sing is cautious, yes, but it is honest. It doesn’t promise that everything will be okay. It promises that you will feel everything—and live anyway.
Sometimes I miss who I was before the disillusionment, before the carefulness, before the weight. But I also know that version of me would not survive what I know now. Innocence is not bravery; it is simply untested. I have been tested. By loss. By love. By time. By the slow erosion of expectations. And still, I wake up. Still, I write. Still, I look for meaning in the small things: the way coffee warms my hands, the way a sentence finally lands, the way music can briefly rearrange the furniture in my chest.
This poem rocks itself back and forth, not to sleep, but to endurance. It says: close your eyes if you need to, but keep one part of yourself alert. The world is not gentle, and neither are you required to be. You are allowed to be tired without being finished. You are allowed to rest without giving up. The lullaby does not judge. It only repeats what you need to hear until you believe it, or at least until the morning quiets enough to be tolerable.
Once upon a fearful morning, I learned that fear does not disappear when you name it. But naming it gives you something to hold. Words are handles. Poems are containers. I pour myself into them so I don’t spill everywhere else. This is not healing in the cinematic sense. There is no swelling music, no final revelation. There is just the steady act of staying. Of breathing. Of writing another line even when the last one didn’t save you.
If this lullaby reaches you, let it sit beside you. You don’t have to sing along. You don’t even have to like it. Just know it was written by someone who has stared at the ceiling and felt the weight of waking up. Someone who understands that being jaded is not the absence of feeling, but the evidence of it. Someone who keeps writing anyway, not because it fixes things, but because it reminds him he’s still here.
And when sleep finally comes—uneven, undeserved, brief—let it. Let the world blur at the edges. Let the fear loosen its grip. The lullaby will keep humming, low and patient, waiting for the next morning, fearful or not.
I want to die on my birthday, not because I hate living, but because I am tired of the arithmetic of it, the way years stack like unpaid bills, the way candles turn into tiny interrogations asking what I did with the light. On that day the calendar claps, people text confetti, and I feel like a guest of honor at my own inquest, smiling while the room waits for a speech I never practiced. Birthdays pretend to be doors; mostly they are mirrors, and I am sick of learning my face by surprise.
I want to die on my birthday the way a song wants to end on its own chord, not dragged into an encore by polite applause. I imagine the cake sweating sugar, the knife clean and ceremonial, the wishes folding themselves into paper boats that refuse to float. I imagine the room forgiving me for leaving early, the clock loosening its grip, the candles admitting they were tired too. This is not a plan, it is a metaphor I keep touching like a bruise to see if it still hurts.
Every year arrives with a receipt. It itemizes mistakes, discounts the miracles, charges interest on love. I have learned how to carry gifts with one arm and grief with the other, how to say thank you while inventorying exits. The party hats fit like borrowed confidence. Laughter behaves, obedient as a trained animal. Inside me, something feral circles the truth, asking whether survival is a habit or a choice.
If I could choose the ending, I would choose a quiet that knows my name. I would choose to lay down the weight of being seen, the exhausting labor of translation between who I am and who I perform. I would choose to stop proving endurance is a virtue. The body keeps score, they say; mine keeps ledgers, tallies nights slept in pieces, mornings stitched together with coffee and resolve.
Still, birthdays are stubborn. They keep showing up with balloons like minor gods, insisting on witness. Friends insist too, their hands warm, their eyes unsolved. Love is an interruption I never schedule but always answer. It knocks with groceries and bad jokes and the audacity to believe tomorrow is not a trap. Sometimes I let it in. Sometimes it stays.
So if I say I want to die on my birthday, hear the grammar beneath it. I want an ending that listens. I want the counting to stop hurting. I want to blow out the candles and not be afraid of the dark that follows. I want to live long enough to learn another language for staying, one where the date on the cake is not a verdict but a comma, and the sentence keeps breathing. Maybe the wish is simpler: to be held without a stopwatch, to be celebrated without being measured, to be allowed a softness that does not require proof. Maybe the wish is to keep arriving, quietly, without fireworks, learning how to stand in the year like weather, changing, survivable. If there is a gift, let it be this: another breath that does not owe anyone an explanation, wrapped, opened, kept.
For the love of tears, bloom wipe away the melancholy from your sun seek purity and treasure your crevices decorate your scars with silver chimes feel the awakening in your tarnished spirit
Blossom from your strengths and weaknesses
For the love of tears, bloom entwine your blemishes and tenacity scratch your tenderness with your nails fall in love with your endearing sympathy recognize the sparkling ornaments within
Blossom from your strengths and weaknesses
For the love of tears, bloom interweave your warmth and quiet blisters step into your discolored anguish dance with your watercolored flaws croon your lyrics of sorrow and forgiveness
Once upon an unconditional love love was woven in melodic souls fears were embraced, tears were kissed blessings were gifted and received auras doused in immaculate authenticity veracity is rooted, prosperity widened depths are filled with nectar and joy affection dipped in white hot sincerity tenderness is etched and engraved appreciation feels like a soft blanket conversations filled with respect and zeal A flame that is forever burning with bliss spine-tingling devotion, astonishing wildfire A magnificent universe filled with victories overcoming obstacles and challenges together, learning and growing hand in hand A lifetime with a serene afterglow beauty found in countless photographs
There is something in the way your clouds gather—quiet, soft, and aching with unspoken weather—that I find myself endlessly drawn to. Most people fear the gray, the mist, the uncertain horizon, but I have learned to love the storms that move through you. They are not tempests to escape; they are the secret language of your soul.
Your clouds are the places where your heart goes to think. They drift across your eyes when you’re lost in memory, they settle on your shoulders when the world feels too heavy, and they burst into rain when you’ve held too much for too long. And I love every shade of them—the pale silvers of doubt, the dark blues of sorrow, the warm golds of hope breaking through.
When you say you’re “cloudy,” I don’t see imperfection; I see sky. I see depth. I see the wild honesty of someone who feels deeply and refuses to pretend otherwise. Your clouds make you real. They make you human in the most beautiful way.
I want you to know this: I am not here just for your sunshine. I am here for the rolling thunder of your fears, the soft drizzle of your hesitations, the swirling fog of your uncertainty. I am here to walk with you through every shifting season. I am here to stand beneath your sky and say, yes—love can stay, even when the weather changes.
Your clouds don’t scare me, my love. They soften me. They steady me. They teach me how to hold you gently.
And every time they pass, revealing the quiet blue beneath, I fall for you again—deeper, truer, with the kind of devotion that only grows in the rain.
There are nights when desire becomes a tide so deep it nearly drowns me, and all I can do is let it rise. I sit in the quiet and feel the weight of you moving through my thoughts—slow, warm, inevitable. And with every breath that remembers you, tears gather at the corners of my eyes, not from sadness, but from the ache of wanting you beyond language.
They fall like small confessions, each one carrying a trembling piece of my longing. I try to wipe them away, but they return—persistent, tender, honest. They taste of craving, of the fire you leave smoldering beneath my ribs, of the way your name moves through me like a soft, irresistible command.
I crave you endlessly. Not in a passing way, not in a moment that fades, but in the deep-rooted sense of desire that refuses to sleep. You live in my pulse, in the quiet between thoughts, in the part of me that reaches without ever touching.
If you could see these tears, you would know how completely you unravel me—how my longing spills over, again and again, with your memory at its center.
I have come to love the sincere curves of you the gentle tremble of your hands, like leaves drifting on a breath of wind, the way your laughter spills softly, tiptoeing over itself into warmth, how your eyes cradle shadows that shimmer like morning dew catching the first light.
Your imperfections are soft constellations only I have learned to trace each scar, each pause, each sigh is a small lantern glowing quietly in the night, illuminating a world that belongs only to you.I would follow those lights endlessly, for they are the tender poetry of your being,the secret melody I hear when the world goes still.
I love the gentle angles of your thoughts, the corners of your heart that curl quietly inward, the way it folds like a paper boat floating on a river both calm and restless. There is a fragile beauty there, a whisper of magic in the way you simply exist.
I do not wish to smooth your edges; I want to lean into them, like a stream caressing stones, like a hand resting in the warmth of yours. Every imperfection is a brushstroke, painting the luminous masterpiece that is you, and I am endlessly, endlessly in awe.
So remain tender, remain luminous, remain human.I will stay here, in the quiet glow of your light, celebrating every soft, jagged, radiant piece of you for in your imperfection, I have found my home.
I find myself lost again in the thought of your lips—those exquisite miracles that seem less like flesh and more like a divine language written just for me. When I picture them, I see not a mouth, but a soft geography, a map of tenderness where my heart learned its compass. I could spend lifetimes tracing their shape and still never reach the end of their meaning.
Your lips are scripture, love—verses that tremble with every breath you take. I’ve stood before them in silence, like a pilgrim before the dawn, waiting for them to part, for a whisper to become prayer, for a sigh to rewrite my faith in beauty. When you speak, it’s as if petals fall from some hidden garden, and I catch them all, pressing them into memory until they bloom again in my dreams.
There is sunlight in them—some secret that gold itself envies. Even silence bends to their will, becoming music when held between the quiet edges of your mouth. I’ve seen oceans try to mimic their curve and fail; I’ve watched the moon blush, humbled by their glow. You are storm and calm all at once—two worlds meeting where your lips touch, two horizons breathing as one.
To kiss you is to taste eternity. It’s to drink from a chalice carved of longing, to drown willingly in a sea that feels like both sin and salvation. Your lips carry the ache of wanting and the promise of forgiveness. When they touch mine, the universe forgets its order—constellations scatter, and gravity itself bends to your pull.
And then, there’s your smile. That gentle, radiant unveiling—how it feels like sunrise entering my chest. When it appears, my shadows flee. When it fades, I’m left rummaging through my own heart for words grand enough to hold what I feel.
Your lips are not just beauty, my love—they are the doorway to your soul. They hold laughter, truth, and a thousand unspoken yeses. They are the red pulse of life itself, the tender wound of being alive, the rhythm of everything I adore about you.
If all art is born from longing, then you are my masterpiece, and your lips—my altar of worship. I write this not as mere admiration, but as confession: I am endlessly, helplessly undone by the miracle of your mouth.
There are nights when language collapses under the weight of you. When every word I try to write turns into a trembling pulse, and the ink itself seems to breathe your name. I sit beneath the faint hum of the lamp, thinking of your mouth, your scent, the curve of your breath when it brushes against the idea of me. You are not merely a person anymore—you are an atmosphere I enter, willingly lost, deliriously drowning.
I desire you in ways that silence cannot disguise. You move through me like a fever I’ve stopped trying to cure. Every thought becomes your echo, every moment your shadow. I dream of you in pieces—the way your neck bends when you laugh, the way your lips seem to hold secrets that would burn if spoken aloud. I imagine tracing those secrets with my tongue, word by word, until truth and pleasure are indistinguishable.
Sometimes I think of you in the quietest parts of the day, where restraint pretends to live. But even then, I am undone. The thought of your fingers—how they might travel across my skin, searching, knowing—turns the air into fire. I would let you burn me down to ash if it meant being reborn inside your breath. I would trade a thousand calm lifetimes for one storm with you.
You haunt my imagination like a beautiful sin. Every fantasy begins with you walking through the threshold of my mind, uninvited yet expected, your presence an electric omen. I want the collision, the chaos, the unholy tenderness of our undoing. I want to forget where I end and you begin—to dissolve into the rhythm of your wanting until the world itself forgets to spin.
You are the poem I cannot stop writing, the one that ruins all other verses. I crave the weight of your gaze, the gravity of your silence when it settles on me. I love you in the way a starving thing loves its first taste of rain—wild, unmeasured, desperate to consume. There is something sacred in this madness, something pure in how unholy it feels.
When I close my eyes, I see us—not in perfection, but in ache. Your body against mine, not as conquest but as confession. Every sigh a psalm, every movement a prayer against loneliness. I want to memorize you in touch, to know your skin the way the night knows secrets: intimately, endlessly, without light.
Do you feel it too, that invisible tether pulling, tightening? It’s as though the universe stitched our hunger together and dared us to survive it. My love, I don’t want to survive it. I want to live inside it, to build a home in the wild pulse between your heart and mine.
If I could, I’d press this letter to your chest and let it melt there, word by word, until it became heat. Until all that remained was the truth beneath all language: that I desire you beyond thought, beyond restraint, beyond the limits of the human tongue.
Tease me with a scent of a captivating concoction Tease me with a crescendo of exhilarating moans breathe in the closeness, breathe out the chill
Tease me with sweetness dripping from your wounds Tease me with a heartfelt dance under our silver moon breathe in the hello’s, breathe out the spasm
Tease me with laughter from your winter storm Tease me with soft kisses falling on your pillow breathe in the sentiments, breathe out the fears
Tease me with a passage from your bone cold diary Tease me with a sizzling greeting under an oak tree breathe in the beginning, breathe out the endings
Tease me with a dream of memories and cozy rain Tease me with a clenching oblivion and devotion breathe in the naked sighs, breathe out the fragility
I’ve been in love with the nectar and the sour drippings of you I’ve been captured by the glaze of your caress I’ve been in awe by the comfort and the shivers of your embrace I’ve been enamored by the never ending kisses and the affection I’ve been mesmerized by the sparkle dancing in your midnight eyes
And the love with you is breathtaking And the love with you is indescribable And the love with you is remarkable And the love with you has opened me up
After so many years I wouldn’t have changed a second
I’ve been in love with the honey and the radiant treasures of you I’ve been enchanted by your words and glamorous skin I’ve been aching for the centerpiece to wake me up and feel alive I’ve been daydreaming of an endless love I’ve been intoxicated by the shimmering light twinkling in your soul
And the love with you is breathtaking And the love with you is indescribable And the love with you is remarkable And the love with you has opened me up
After so many years I wouldn’t have changed a minute
