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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.

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I forgot what it’s like to be wanted, and I don’t mean needed in the utilitarian sense, like a spare key or a reliable paycheck, but wanted in the way thunderstorms want open fields and mouths want names whispered into them. There was a time when desire arrived without asking for permission, when it leaned into me with its elbows on the table and said, you, as if no other option had ever existed. Back then, I didn’t have to audition for attention; it found me mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-flaw, and decided to stay. Now everything is scheduled, measured, softened. Affection comes with disclaimers. Attraction clears its throat before speaking. People circle each other like polite planets, careful not to disrupt the furniture. I have become very good at being agreeable, very good at being digestible, very good at being the kind of person you admire quietly and forget loudly. I fold myself neatly into conversations, make room, ask questions, laugh on cue. I am impressive in a way that doesn’t interrupt anyone’s life. I am safe. I am considerate. I am never the thing that ruins sleep. Wanting used to be loud with me. It used to spill drinks and forget plans and text twice in a row without apology. It used to look at me like a problem it was excited to solve. Somewhere along the way, I became a suggestion instead of a craving. A “maybe” instead of a pull. I watch desire now the way you watch weather through a window—aware it exists, unsure how it feels on skin. Sometimes it almost remembers me: a glance that lingers too long, a hand that hesitates before pulling away, a joke that lands closer than expected. But it always corrects itself. Responsibility clears its throat. Long-term thinking wins. I forgot what it’s like to be wanted without a risk assessment, without a pros-and-cons list, without the need to explain myself in advance. I tell myself I am whole, and I believe it, mostly. I am not broken. I am just untouched in the places that used to feel electric. Still, there are nights when I miss being the hunger, when I miss being chosen with urgency, when I miss someone looking at me like restraint is a temporary inconvenience. I forgot what it’s like to be wanted, but I remember what it’s like to ache, and that feels like proof. Wanting is still alive in me, pacing, impatient, waiting for someone brave or foolish enough to knock without manners and mean it.

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Excerpt from “For You, Love Always”

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

Blossom from your strengths and weaknesses

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Tomorrow’s leaves,
fluttering in the October wind
serenading my Sunday doubt
chasing my valiant harmony
Yesterday’s shadows,
spoke to my brittle heartache
growled at my brainwashed reflection
crawled inside my grey river
my pride is louder than my endless storms
Tomorrow’s leaves,
floating in my sweetest passions
drifting within my crooning veins
dancing in sugarcoated air
Yesterday’s shadows,
whispered and kissed me goodbye
disappeared within my iron dignity
disintegrated within my thunder
my pride is louder than my endless storms

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Excerpt from “For You, Love Always”

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

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My love,

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.

Always,
The one who adores your sky.

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My love,

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.

Yours in every trembling, wanting breath.

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Embrace the tremors

Once upon a midnight fear, you will not see the echoes of my tears, because they learned to walk softly, barefoot through the house of my chest, passing clocks that cough and calendars that bruise. This is how the story begins: the way sleep explains itself to the sea, with a hush mistaken for mercy. There was a town once, built entirely of punctuation, comma streets and ellipsis alleys, where laughter leaned like tired lampposts and rumors kept bees. I lived there briefly, renting a window, watching the moon practice apologies in the tin mirrors of rooftops. Satire was the local weather, a persistent drizzle that made even statues blink and reconsider themselves.

One evening the ground cleared its throat. Dogs began writing letters to the dark. Teacups clinked like nervous teeth. The earth—an old poet with arthritis—shifted a word and cracked the sentence. We called it an earthquake, because we are afraid of naming confessions honestly. I was carrying a pocket of stars then, contraband hope wrapped in a receipt, when the tremor bowed politely, like a waiter, and asked my name. I gave it a nickname instead, because truth grows shy in public, and the nickname tasted of copper and rain.

Stories fell from shelves, their spines sighing as they hit the floor. A map unlearned its borders. My shadow slipped on a metaphor and laughed, which felt briefly illegal. In the dust I found a childhood still warm, still breathing, counting marbles like prayers. Satirical saints wagged their halos and said this was character development, selling postcards of ruin with inspirational fonts, while a sparrow stitched the air, threading silence through rubble until the silence held.

I followed a crack in the street the way one follows a river that already knows your future. It led to a theater with no roof, where clouds rehearsed tragedies and understudies called thunder. The stage manager was a patient ant keeping notes with crumbs. There, a woman named Gravity sang lullabies in a minor key, braiding ankles to floors and memories to doors. She sang of falling as pilgrimage, of bruises as stamps in a passport, and I stamped willingly. Dreams queued politely nearby, holding numbers, waiting to explain themselves. One wore my father’s coat and smelled of winter and oranges, and told me to forgive the ground for wanting to move on.

The quake softened, a loosening hand. Buildings exhaled. A piano found its missing leg and forgave the floor. We swept metaphors into piles labeled Later, Maybe, Never, and pretended this was normal. At dawn the sky brought coffee; steam rose like a forgiven rumor. I wrote apologies to the cracks and they wrote back, unsigned, saying they only wanted to be heard. I pressed my ear to the street and listened to the earth practice empathy.

I left town with a suitcase of aftershocks, each one a small bell. On the road, satire waved from ditches holding signs that promised detours to meaning. I laughed, then slowed, then listened. Time limped afterward, hands bandaged with patience, agreeing to walk slower for the wounded. Neighbors traded sugar for stories and salt for names we forgot to say. Mirrors learned manners, tilting their faces to flatter survival. A philosopher in the square juggled apples and dropped questions on purpose, saying certainty bruises easily and doubt is a feather mattress. Children chalked hopscotch across fault lines, jumping from Before to After, their laughter forming a bridge no engineer approved.

Bread rose despite instructions. Yeast preached resurrection to ovens. We ate metaphors warm, buttered with relief, crumbs mapping constellations on our shirts. Someone toasted absence and clinked a glass, and the glass forgave gravity again. I mailed a letter to the future without an address, only a mood. The stamp was a leaf. The postmark read, Whenever you’re ready. The future replied with a dream wrapped in newspaper, smelling of ink, the headline screaming that I survived myself.

Night rehearsed gently then, a lullaby with commas for stars. The moon stopped apologizing and listened. I slept with my shoes by the bed, in case the earth asked me to dance. Now the town is quieter. Punctuation has grown gardens. Ellipses bloom like pauses. Cracks are filled with gold because we learned a trick from old bowls: breakage can be an instruction manual. I keep the bells from my suitcase and ring them when words grow stubborn. They remind me that movement is a language, that fear read slowly is only a letter begging for context. So I write softly, and the ground answers softer still, and if the page trembles I breathe ink, count heartbeats, trust margins and footsteps, trusting that even endings are temporary shelters humming quietly while we learn balance beneath forgiving skies.

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Every tear tells a story

The poet’s tears do not rush. They gather slowly, like words circling a thought they are afraid to land on. They rise from the chest, where memory keeps its quiet archives, and they taste of all the moments that were almost spoken but never survived the air. Each tear carries a small history, a sentence unfinished, a love that learned to live in silence.

When they fall, they are not asking for mercy. They are translating feeling into something the body can release. Salt becomes language. The face becomes a page. The tear traces a line the poet could not yet write, slipping past grammar, past reason, past pride. It is a confession without audience, a prayer whispered to no one in particular.

Some tears are born from wonder—how beauty persists even after being wounded, how light still finds broken places and calls them holy. Others come heavy with grief, thick with nights that stretched too long and mornings that arrived empty-handed. These tears do not shout; they endure. They know the shape of loss and the patience of waiting.

The poet wipes their face and pretends the moment has passed, but it never does. The tears dry and move inward, settling between metaphors, breathing beneath the pauses, softening the sharp edges of truth. They become the weight behind every line, the ache that makes language honest.

For the poet’s tears are not an ending. They are the origin. They are the quiet proof that something mattered enough to break open, that the heart dared to feel deeply in a world that teaches restraint. And long after the eyes are dry, the tears remain—alive in the prose, asking the reader to feel them too.

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My Dearest,

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.

Always,

Forever Yours

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Every time I look up, I see you. The sky becomes your mirror, an infinite canvas painted in your likeness. The dawn blushes like your skin when the sun first kisses it, tender and slow, like the universe remembering how to love. Your beauty stretches beyond the horizon, endless, breathing, alive. The clouds drift like your thoughts, soft, mysterious, always moving, always reshaping the light that falls through them.

You are the sky when she’s calm, when the world seems held together by a quiet sigh. You are the whisper of blue between my ribs, the soft ache of wanting something too vast to hold. I find myself tracing the air the way I long to trace your spine, carefully, reverently, afraid I’ll break the silence that makes you divine.

When night falls, your beauty deepens. The stars scatter like the goosebumps on your skin when I whisper your name, and the moon turns to silver just to resemble your glow. You are the night I want to get lost in—velvet, sensual, infinite. Every flicker of starlight feels like your breath, every shadow a secret curve waiting for me to explore.

There’s something about the way the sky changes that reminds me of you. The way a storm builds—slow, electric, dangerous, beautiful. The way lightning cracks open the dark like the truth of your eyes breaking through my guarded heart. I want to stand in your storm and let it drench me, let your passion soak through every defense I’ve built. You are not gentle wind—you are the wild pulse of thunder that makes me feel alive.

Sometimes, I imagine lying beneath you, beneath your sky-body, tracing constellations across your skin with my fingertips, naming each one after the moments you’ve left me breathless. I’d call one Eclipse, for the way you darken everything else when you enter the room. Another Aurora, for the light that dances in your eyes when you laugh.

If beauty were weather, you would be every season. The sun-warmed blue of spring, the blazing fire of summer’s dusk, the melancholy gray of autumn rain, and the crystal silence of winter’s night. You move through me like the wind, unseen but unforgettable.

My love, when I say you are beautiful, I do not mean it in the small way people use the word. I mean you are the breath between worlds, the endless horizon my soul leans toward. You are the dawn I wake to and the twilight that undresses the day. You are the sky itself—ever-changing, eternal, untouchable, yet somehow, miraculously, mine for a moment.

If I could, I’d bottle every sunrise just to pour it across your skin. I’d steal every star to hang in your hair. But even the universe isn’t enough to frame you.

You are the sky and I am forever looking up.

Yours beneath the infinite,
—Always.

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My love,

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.

—Yours in hunger, always.

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Available on Amazon!

Play the link! This is a song about my book!

https://suno.com/song/35278878-1910-4b84-9c22-6191f7d52dd1

📚Once Upon A Rain, She Bloomed

Between shadows and memory, one woman’s diary elucidates relationships come and gone, those who helped shape who she is from the inside out. Turning the rain into something beautiful, the opening petals of a rose now blooming.

Veteran poet Braeden Michaels crafts his seventh collection of poetry into a mold of vision. Like pages from a twisted fairy tale, he narrates using his unique poetic style and perspective, first dissecting emotion before reconstructing and reimagining each one.

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Invigorating Sigh

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

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Cracked Sky, Tearful Moon

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”

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Sipping Devotion

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”

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Winter’s Ballad

you could be the lyric that I never wrote
you could be the nectar fawning on my tongue
you could be the feather against my cheek
you could be the warmth on my lost face
you could be the song that repeats in my mind

And in the morning chill, I can taste the harmony off your skin
And in the brisk moonlight, I can hear your symphony burn from your lips

you could be the melody that awakens me
you could be the lily I see in my holy dreams
you could be the breeze I never forget
you could be the fear that I have forgotten
you could be the song that repeats in my mind

And in the morning chill, I can feel your poetry
in the chorus of my weary soul
And in the brisk moonlight, I can recognize your violins in the orchestra

you could be the instrument that sparkles
you could be the goodbye that is never uttered
you could be the unspoken and endless limerick
you could be the sorrow that turns into halcyon
you could be the song that repeats in my mind

And in the morning chill, I can watch you play the acoustic guitar whispering your poetry
And in the brisk moonlight, I can see pieces of myself you savor in your tragic song

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Endless Wildfire

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.

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Tears of the Wind

I photographed the cruelty spoken from your lips
I no longer needed your warmth
I photographed the lies that reverberated in your façade
I no longer needed your touch
I photographed the memories that had cracks with less meaning
I no longer needed your approval
I begin to dream wide and fell in love with the colors of my passions
I photographed the emptiness and your signature dipped in carelessness
I no longer needed your comfort
I photographed the deceit and the war in your stubborn eyes
I no longer needed your backbone
I photographed the distance you created from the lack of affection
I no longer needed your devotion
I begin to see my strengths and embraced my weaknesses
And you faded into the tears of the wind

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Tear’s Autograph

I’ve kissed your mysteries with amplified eyes
I’ve kissed your dead secrets with bloodshot lipstick
“And now the love story takes a curve, seeing I won’t be the last and was never the first”
I’ve kissed your metaphors with agony in my throat
I’ve kissed your afternoons with scalding black coffee brewing
“And the now the love story cuts me deep, I’m not myself and see you in my sleep”
I’ve kissed your tragedies with a sea of glitter covering up your sins
I’ve kissed your lying mouth with my ignorance sealed
“And now the love story is coming to an end, now my life can truly begin”
I’ve kissed your piano concerto with whispers fluttering in my ears
I’ve kissed your villain with accusations stripped and shredded
“And now the love story fades into my past,
no longer do my tears have your autograph”

My books are available here.