Some people grow older without ever growing. Time touches their faces, changes their bodies, buries people they once loved, and gives them years they mistake for wisdom. But beneath it all, they remain children in the darkest sense, ruled by impulse, protected by pride, and completely unaware of the damage they leave behind.
They walk through life carrying a mirror they never dare to look into. Instead, they hold it toward everyone else. They study the flaws of others with an almost religious devotion, searching for imperfections that might distract from the emptiness staring back at them. They can tell you everything that is wrong with another person, yet remain completely incapable of recognizing the poison within themselves.
They lack the awareness to understand that every wound does not make them a victim. Sometimes they are the wound. Sometimes they are the reason someone stopped speaking, stopped trusting, stopped believing, or quietly disappeared. But accountability requires a depth of honesty they have never developed. So they rewrite the story until they are innocent again.
They call their cruelty honesty. They call their anger passion. They call their selfishness independence. They call their inability to communicate a personality trait. They call their refusal to change standing their ground. They have a name for everything except the truth.
The truth is that emotional intelligence requires humility. It requires sitting alone with the parts of yourself you would rather bury. It requires asking what you did, what you said, what you failed to understand, and how much pain your behavior caused. It requires the terrifying realization that you may not be the hero of your own story.
Some people would rather destroy every relationship around them than face that realization.
So they continue. They repeat the same patterns with different people. They carry the same bitterness into every room and wonder why every room eventually becomes empty. They blame betrayal, jealousy, disrespect, abandonment, misunderstanding, and bad luck. Anything is easier than admitting that they have spent years becoming the very thing they claim to hate.
And perhaps that is the darkest form of ignorance. Not the inability to know, but the refusal to know. The refusal to look inward when the evidence is everywhere. The refusal to grow when life has given them every reason to.
Eventually, people stop trying to reach them. They stop explaining what should have been obvious. They stop offering pieces of themselves to someone who keeps breaking them and calling it misunderstanding.
And the person who never grew remains exactly where they have always been, surrounded by the ruins of relationships they could have saved, staring through a window at a world they believe abandoned them, never realizing that the door was never locked.
Sex isn’t love. Sometimes it is simply two people reaching for warmth in the darkness, trying to forget for a little while that the world can be a lonely place. It can be beautiful, tender, passionate, and honest in its own way. It can make the distance between two people disappear for a moment and convince you that you’ve found something deeper than the night itself. But when morning comes, the body remembers what the heart doesn’t.
Sex can make you feel wanted without making you feel known. It can make you feel desired without making you feel understood. Someone can know every part of your body and still never learn the language of your sadness. They can hold you close without ever understanding what keeps you awake at night. They can know how to make you feel good without knowing what makes you feel whole. Knowing someone’s body is not the same thing as knowing their soul.
Love takes longer. Love doesn’t always arrive with fireworks or passion. Sometimes it arrives quietly, almost unnoticed, in the ordinary moments that nobody writes songs about. It is making coffee the way someone likes it. It is remembering something they mentioned months ago. It is sitting beside them when they are sick. It is listening to the same story because you know they need to tell it again. Love is found in the mundane because love isn’t always looking for a moment; sometimes it is building a life.
Love stays when there is nothing to gain. It stays when you’re tired, angry, insecure, frightened, or broken. It sees the parts of you that you carefully hide from everyone else and doesn’t immediately turn away. It knows your failures and your weaknesses, the scars you don’t talk about and the memories you wish you could erase, and somehow still finds a reason to sit beside you.
Sex can say, “I want you.” Love says, “I am here.” There is nothing wrong with wanting someone. Desire is human, and when desire exists between two people who genuinely love each other, it can become something beautiful. But desire alone cannot carry the weight of love. It can burn intensely and still disappear by morning. Not every flame was meant to become a home.
And love isn’t sex either. Love doesn’t disappear because two bodies aren’t touching. Love can exist across a room, across a city, across years. It can live in a photograph, in an old voicemail, in a familiar song, in the empty side of a bed. It can exist in the quiet knowledge that someone matters to you even when they aren’t physically beside you.
Sometimes love is sleeping beside someone without asking anything of them. Sometimes it is holding their hand when there is nothing you can say to make things better. Sometimes it is kissing their forehead and letting them sleep. Sometimes it is simply saying, “Rest. I’ve got you,” and meaning it with every part of yourself.
We have confused hunger with devotion for so long that we’ve forgotten they speak different languages. Desire reaches for what it wants in the moment. Love considers what the other person needs tomorrow. Desire can be impatient. Love learns patience. Desire wants to possess the moment. Love wants to protect the person.
Sex can bring two bodies together, but love teaches two people how to remain together when the excitement changes, when the years become heavier, when life stops being romantic and starts being real. Love is what happens when you choose someone even after you’ve seen them without the illusion, without the perfect lighting, without the beginning-of-the-relationship magic.
Because the deepest intimacy isn’t always found beneath the sheets. Sometimes it is found in the silence after an argument when neither person wants to leave. Sometimes it is found in forgiveness. Sometimes it is found in vulnerability, when someone finally tells you what they’ve been afraid to say and trusts you enough not to use it against them.
Sex can make you feel close to someone, but love makes you feel safe being completely yourself. Sex can touch your body, but love touches the places inside you that nobody else can reach. Sex can give you a memory, but love can become the reason you remember an entire lifetime differently.
And perhaps that is what we’ve been searching for all along. Not someone who simply wants our bodies, but someone who wants to know what lives inside them. Someone who stays after the beautiful moments have passed. Someone who doesn’t measure affection by physical desire, but by presence, patience, kindness, loyalty, and the quiet decision to keep choosing you.
Sex can be a moment. Love becomes a history. Sex can make the heart race. Love can calm it. Sex can make you feel desired. Love makes you feel cherished. Sex can bring someone into your bed, but love invites them into your life.
And when the lights go out, when beauty changes and desire loses some of its urgency, when years have written themselves across our faces and life has taken away some of the things we once thought would last forever, what remains is not the hunger. What remains is the hand still reaching for yours in the darkness.
That is love.
Love isn’t sex.
Sex isn’t love.
They may sometimes walk beside each other, and when they do, there can be something extraordinarily beautiful about it. But one does not prove the other. You don’t have to give your body to prove your heart, and you don’t have to possess someone’s body to prove that you love them.
Because eventually, the body changes, the fire settles, the nights become ordinary, and the years move faster than we ever imagined they would. And if love was real, there will still be someone beside you when the passion becomes quiet, someone who knows your silence, someone who remembers who you were, understands who you’ve become, and still reaches across the darkness to find your hand.
I have spent so much of myself believing that if I loved you harder, listened better, held you longer, or gave you every beautiful piece of my heart, one day you would finally feel full. But there is a quiet grief in realizing that I will never be enough to make you happy. No amount of tenderness I offer can reach the place inside you that I cannot touch. I could empty my soul into your hands, and you would still leave with room for more.
Perhaps that is the cruelest kind of love, not that I have too little to give, but that everything I have is still not what you need. And so I remain here, carrying a love that is endless, while learning that someone can give you their entire world and still never become the home you’re searching for.
My son, you are the quiet miracle that gave my life a new horizon. Before you, I measured my days by time. After you, I measured them by your laughter, your courage, your dreams, and every step you took toward becoming yourself.
You are not simply part of my world. You are the reason it shines. Every hope I carry, every prayer I whisper, every strength I discover begins and ends with you. If I could gather every star from the night sky, they still would not equal the light you bring into my heart.
No matter how tall you grow or where life carries you, you will always be the greatest love I have ever known. My son, you are my heart walking through the world, my greatest joy, my endless pride, my everything.
Once upon a midnight fear She took a sip of corrosion Debilitating manners and quirks Fumbling through a frenzy Gliding inside hallucinations Staggering outside the commotions A recollection of mourning
Stern exchanges melting Comments and remarks growl Sentiments dressed in black Treasures whispering hush Ripping dead skin with caution Crumbling faith turns into dirt A recollection of mourning
Hunger flexing with animosity Greed panting with saliva In holy matrimony with the raven She tasted the hollow bitterness Numb and disgusted by the poison Infuriated with the toxic rants A recollection of mourning
Provoked by exasperation Anxiety wrapped around her neck Choking on sour corruption Addicted to the murmurs Inhaling the virulent winds Wounded by a malicious tongue A recollection of mourning
A catastrophic touch bellowed Infatuation hung as a disaster Benevolence was a chewed up dog bone Loneliness exhaled rapidly Sympathy was a an old rag Love was just mucus from a cough A recollection of mourning
They speak to me as if I am less than human, as if my silence is permission and my patience is weakness. Every insult lands like ash on my skin. Every curse digs a little deeper, settling beneath the surface where bruises cannot be seen. I stand there, carrying words that were never meant to heal, only to wound.
Some days I replay the threats in the dark. The venom in a voice. The promise of harm disguised as power. “I will make you a widow.” “I will drown you.” Sentences that linger long after they are spoken, circling the room like hungry crows. They stain the air. They turn ordinary moments into shadows. They teach the heart to expect storms even beneath clear skies.
And still, I remain. Not untouched, not unbroken, but standing. A house battered by years of weather. A forest scarred by fire. The darkness has learned my name, yet it has not claimed me. The cruelty they offered became a river, and though it tried to pull me under, I learned how to breathe beneath black water and return to the surface carrying every wound like proof that I survived.
There is a strange loneliness in being loved by voices that live hundreds of miles away while sharing a roof with strangers who know the shape of your face but have forgotten the language of your heart.
The people on glowing screens ask how you are sleeping. They remember the stories you told months ago. They notice when your laughter sounds forced. They reach across impossible distances and somehow find you. Yet in the rooms around you, doors open and close like quiet verdicts. Plates clatter. Televisions hum. Conversations pass through the house like ghosts through walls, never stopping long enough to touch you.
You sit among them and feel absent. The couch beside you remains occupied, but the silence between you stretches wider than oceans. You learn that proximity is a poor substitute for connection. You learn that a person can be surrounded by family, by partners, by familiar footsteps, and still feel as though they have been abandoned in the center of an empty city.
At night, the house settles into darkness. You hear life happening behind closed doors and wonder when exactly you became a visitor here. When exactly your words stopped mattering. When exactly your presence became furniture.
The cruelest distance is not measured in miles. It is measured in unanswered questions, in eyes that no longer look up when you enter a room, in the hollow ache of realizing the people furthest away know more about your soul than the people who pass you in the hallway every day.
And so you keep reaching for those distant lights, those names on screens, those voices carried by invisible signals through the dark. Because sometimes the only place you feel seen is somewhere you have never been, by people you have never touched, while the people closest to you remain impossibly, devastatingly out of reach.
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.
I move through my days like they’ve already happened, like I am remembering instead of living, untouched by urgency, untouched by fear. Time passes without asking anything of me, and I give it nothing back. The idea of an ending doesn’t disturb me; it just sits there, distant and weightless, like a horizon I don’t feel compelled to reach or avoid.
There is a quiet in not caring, a stillness that settles deeper than sadness ever could. No fight, no resistance, just a soft acceptance that everything fades whether I hold on or not. And no one will ever know if my poetry is me or something I invented to feel less invisible, whether these words are truth or just a shape I hide behind. If my name disappears, if my breath one day simply doesn’t return, it feels no more significant than any other moment slipping by unnoticed. I exist, and then I won’t, and somewhere in that truth is a calm I cannot quite explain.
We stopped belonging to each other long before we ever had the courage to admit it. It happened quietly, the way cold seeps into a room without asking, settling into the spaces between us until everything felt distant, untouched. Your voice lost its weight. Your eyes stopped reaching for me. We were standing in the same place, but already living separate endings.
I used to believe in the illusion of you—that somehow your presence meant permanence, that the way you said my name carried something real. I held onto fragments, convinced they were enough to build something lasting. But you were never whole with me. You loved in pieces, and I was foolish enough to try and make a home out of what was never meant to stay.
There’s a certain kind of cold that comes with understanding the truth. You were never mine. You were only ever passing through, something temporary that I mistook for fate. I let you linger anyway, let you convince me that half-love was still love, that emptiness could be dressed up as connection. I stood there in it, calling it warmth, even as it hollowed me out.
You touched me like something familiar but not important. Like a place you could return to when everything else felt unbearable, but never somewhere you intended to remain. I was convenience, not choice. And I learned that difference in the silence you left behind.
Now, without you, everything feels sharper. Cleaner. There’s no confusion here, no false comfort. Just the quiet honesty of absence, and the weight of what never truly existed.
I am not yours. Not in the way I deserved to be held, not in the way that lingers beyond convenience. And you are not mine. Not now, not ever in the way I needed you to be.
We were never something real—just two people colliding in the dark, mistaking the impact for meaning, and calling it love until it disappeared.
You picked me up like something small and shining, turning me over in your hands as if I existed just to be noticed. You pressed your fingerprints into me, and I learned your touch like a language—how you brought me to life, how I only seemed to matter when you were looking.
I didn’t question it. I didn’t mind being the thing you reached for when the silence got too loud. You wound me up with your attention, and I gave you everything I was without asking what would happen when you stopped.
And you did stop.
No warning, no slow fading—just absence. The hands that once held me like I was something special simply forgot I was ever there.
Now I sit where you left me, not broken, just untouched. Still holding all the life you started in me, with nowhere for it to go, remembering what it felt like to be wanted… and how easily you decided I wasn’t anymore.
My writing didn’t evolve all at once—it shifted slowly, almost quietly, until one day I realized I wasn’t approaching the page the same way anymore.
In the beginning, I wrote out of instinct. It was raw, unfiltered, and driven almost entirely by emotion. I didn’t think much about structure or intention—I just needed to get the words out. Writing was a release, a way to make sense of whatever I was feeling in the moment. And while there’s something necessary about that stage, I’ve come to understand that it was only the starting point. I wasn’t shaping the work yet. I was just letting it spill.
Somewhere along the way, that changed.
I fell in love with prose poetry, and that changed everything about how I write. Without line breaks to rely on, I had to learn how to create rhythm in a different way—through sentences, through pacing, through the way one thought moves into the next. It forced me to be more intentional. Every word had to carry weight. Every paragraph had to feel like it belonged. I couldn’t hide behind form anymore. I had to trust my voice to hold the piece together.
That shift pushed me deeper into symbolism. I stopped saying things directly and started letting images speak for me. Rain became more than rain—it became steadiness, quiet strength, presence. Thunder became intensity, disruption, something that demands to be felt. I realized that meaning doesn’t always have to be handed to the reader. It can be built, layered, discovered. That’s where my writing started to feel more alive—when it stopped explaining and started suggesting.
I’ve also learned the power of details. Not more details—better ones. I’ve moved away from trying to say everything and focused more on saying the right things. A pause, a shift in someone’s expression, the way a voice softens—those moments carry more weight than over-explaining ever could. I’ve started to understand that restraint can be just as powerful as intensity, sometimes more.
Even the way I use dialogue has changed. It’s not always direct, not always spoken out loud, but it’s there—in the way my writing responds to itself, in the way ideas unfold and challenge each other. There’s a conversation happening within the work now, a sense that the piece is thinking as it moves forward, not just stating something and ending there.
A big part of this growth comes from the poets I’ve spent time with. Kerouac taught me how to let writing move, how to trust the flow without losing meaning. Neruda showed me how to make emotion feel tangible, how to give weight to love and longing. Ginsberg gave me permission to be loud when I need to be, to let the writing breathe and stretch beyond limits. Mary Oliver reminded me to pay attention—to the quiet, to the natural, to the small moments that are easy to overlook but carry so much depth. Bukowski showed me how to strip things down, how to be direct without losing impact. And O’Hara taught me that poetry doesn’t have to feel distant or elevated—it can live right here, in the everyday.
I don’t try to sound like them, but I’ve learned from them. They’ve helped me see what’s possible, and in doing that, they’ve helped me sharpen my own voice.
At the same time, I’ve become more aware of how important it is to be unique—to not just echo what I admire, but to find something that feels distinctly mine. That’s an ongoing process. I’m still discovering what my voice sounds like at its truest, still learning how to separate influence from identity. But I’m leaning into it more now, trusting that my perspective, my way of seeing and shaping the world, is enough to stand on its own.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started taking my writing more seriously. Not in a way that makes it rigid, but in a way that makes it intentional. I think more about how a piece is built, how it flows, how it holds together from beginning to end. I spend more time refining, revisiting, pushing ideas further instead of stopping at the first version. I’ve developed patience with it.
That might be the biggest change.
I don’t rush the work the way I used to. I let it unfold. I let it sit. I trust that what I’m trying to say is worth the time it takes to say it well. There’s less urgency to prove something and more focus on creating something that feels complete.
But I haven’t lost the core of why I started writing in the first place. The emotion is still there. The intensity is still there. The need to connect, to understand, to translate feeling into something real—that hasn’t gone anywhere. The difference now is that it’s guided. It’s shaped. It has direction.
I’m not just writing to get something out anymore.
I want to talk to you about everything that hums beneath the skin of the day — about the way morning light spills like melted gold across unmade beds, about the silence before a storm and how it feels like a held breath between two almost-lovers. I want to talk about old highways and forgotten towns, about the ghosts in roadside motels and the poetry scrawled in bathroom stalls, about politics and power and the quiet corruption that smiles under fluorescent lights. I want to talk about God and doubt in the same sentence, about death as a doorway and memory as a room we keep returning to barefoot.
I want to talk about art — the kind that bruises — about ink-stained fingers and guitars crying in half-empty taverns, about books that smell like dust and rebellion. I want to talk about your childhood, your scars, your favorite songs, the taste of your name when it rests on my tongue like summer rain. I want to talk about space — black holes and constellations — and whether loneliness is just gravity pulling us toward each other.
I want to talk about humor as armor, about the masks we polish, about fear, about ambition, about why we ache for meaning in a world that sells distraction. I want to talk about love — not the soft version, but the feral, thunder-lit kind that shakes picture frames off the walls. I want to talk about the future like it’s a map we’re drawing in neon, about the past like it’s a burning letter we refuse to drop.
Mostly, I want to talk about us — how two minds collide like weather systems, how conversation can feel like standing barefoot in a river of electricity — and how, if you let me, I could stay there for hours, naming every color in your sky.
Before you give every citizen a number, give every dollar a name. Build a living ledger that does not sleep, a cathedral of code where each cent leaves a footprint in light. Let the money speak plainly—this much to classrooms, this much to concrete and steel, this much to contracts signed in quiet rooms where the ink dries faster than the truth.
Thread a bright wire through the arteries of the state. Follow the pulse from paycheck to policy, from tax form to turbine, from the small-business owner’s trembling signature to the vast machinery it feeds. Strip away the velvet language of “allocation” and “miscellaneous,” words that blur like smoke and drift into ceilings no one can see beyond.
If we are to be rendered into data—faces mapped, eyes scanned, identities distilled to digits—then let the spending be rendered just as bare. Let every mother trace her overtime into textbooks and lunches. Let every veteran follow the echo of his labor into clinics and clean water and the promises made in his name.
Map the current before you map the citizen. Illuminate the flow before you illuminate the face. Because a nation courageous enough to track every dollar in daylight may finally be worthy of holding every identity in its hands.
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 am not lost in the way people mean it, not wandering without direction or purpose, not broken by the absence of a map. I am simply unseen, standing in the quiet spaces where footsteps soften and names are spoken less often. There is a difference between being lost and being overlooked, between drifting and choosing to walk a road few recognize as real.
I move through days carrying questions instead of answers, and I have learned that questions weigh more. They bend the spine, slow the stride, demand pauses at intersections where certainty would have passed through without noticing. I linger there, not because I am afraid to choose, but because I understand that some paths reveal themselves only after patience has been practiced.
The world favors arrival. It celebrates destinations, milestones, the clean lines of progress drawn in ink bold enough for everyone to see. But there is no applause for becoming, for the silent labor of shaping a self in private. I am in that labor now, hands dusty, heart unfinished, building something that does not yet resemble the final structure. This work is invisible, and so am I.
There are days when the silence feels like erasure, when I wonder if existence requires witnesses to be real. I speak my name softly to remind myself that I am still here, that breath is proof enough. I remind myself that roots grow in darkness, that seeds do not announce themselves until they are ready to break the surface and claim the light.
I am not behind; I am beneath, learning the architecture of depth. While others race toward horizons, I am studying the ground, the fractures and the strength hidden inside what holds us upright. I am learning how much pressure it takes to become unmovable, how stillness can be a form of preparation rather than surrender.
Being unfound has taught me gentleness. It has taught me how to listen without interrupting, how to carry hope without demanding proof. It has taught me that worth is not measured by recognition, and that meaning does not need permission to exist. I am becoming fluent in the language of quiet persistence.
One day, perhaps, someone will look my way and think they have discovered me, as if I had been waiting in plain sight all along. They will not know the nights spent assembling courage, the mornings stitched together with resolve, the slow, deliberate faith it took to remain here without applause.
Until then, I walk on. Not lost. Not broken. Just moving through the in-between, trusting that being unfound is not failure, but a necessary season of becoming. I am not lost, just not found—and that, too, is a place worth standing.
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.
Storm of Ink 