In the stillness of our promised night,
no need for many words, just the gaze in our eyes.
As rapid breaths touch our souls,
other noises fade, our connection unfurls.
Closer, closer, let the story be told,
listen without haste, respond, unfold.
Your choices, a melody I embrace,
hand in hand, dreams find their space.
Trembling sweetly, a dance of whispers,
passion unfolding in rhythmic slivers.
Hazy window light, an orange glow,
our ambitions take flight, an indigo show.
We are but floating specks in the vast expanse,
Drifting through the cosmos, in an eternal dance.
Infinite galaxies twinkle in the velvet night,
As we journey through space, bathed in starlight.
Amongst the constellations, we find our place,
Tiny fragments of stardust, in boundless space.
The universe whispers secrets, ancient and grand,
As we wander, awestruck, hand in hand.
Our lives but a blink in the cosmic symphony,
Yet each moment holds its own divine mystery.
We are fleeting sparks in the celestial fire,
Bound by gravity’s pull, yet filled with desire.
Through the eons, we journey, seeking truth,
Navigating the cosmos, in the pursuit of youth.
For in the quiet expanses of the universe,
We find solace in our shared humanity’s verse.
In a corridor dim, where shadows dance,
Lies a tale of fate’s sweet happenstance.
Amidst the silence, a scent divine,
A clementine’s whisper, a moment’s sign.
Through echoing halls, its aroma sways,
Guiding lost souls in a soft, citrus maze.
Each step a journey, each breath a song,
In this fragrant passage, where hearts belong.
With golden hues, like sunlit dreams,
The clementine’s glow, a beacon it seems.
Through twists and turns, it leads the way,
To realms of wonder, where dreams hold sway.
In the corridor’s embrace, secrets confide,
As whispers of citrus softly abide.
Oh, sweet clementine, in corridors divine,
Your essence enchants, like aged wine.
In shadows veiled, where darkness reigns,
A tale unfolds, entwined with pains.
“Revenge,” they whisper, a bitter measure,
Where one’s agony becomes my treasure.
In the silence of a vengeful night,
Echoes the heartbeat of a secret spite.
A twisted dance, a malevolent pleasure,
As pain unfolds, a clandestine treasure.
Through the labyrinth of grudges untold,
The thirst for retribution takes hold.
A poison brewed in shadows’ leisure,
Where torment bestowed is the sought-for treasure.
Yet in this quest, what price is paid,
When revenge becomes a haunting shade?
The soul entangled in a web of leisure,
A cycle where pain begets pain’s own treasure.
In the end, the echo of vengeance fades,
Leaving behind desolate, barren shades.
For in the heart, a longing for a different leisure,
Where empathy triumphs over revenge’s bitter treasure.
Love, a fleeting wisp of smoke,
Cigarette moments, a transient cloak.
Inhaled embraces, exhaled sighs,
A dance of shadows under transient skies.
Embers flicker, desires’ play,
A silent script in smoke’s ballet.
Cherished fragments, ephemeral art,
Love’s canvas painted, then torn apart.
Hold too tight, the burn’s soft glow,
Fingers marked by the ebb and flow.
A tale unfolds, whispers in the air,
Love and cigarettes, a nuanced affair.
Amidst petals and sweet intentions,
lies a tale of expected affection.
Don’t buy me flowers, for they bloom
into headaches, wilted gestures
of a scripted clichéd playbook, a tired routine.
Don’t follow the script of others,
don’t mimic their steps, their gestures,
trying to carve a niche within my heart.
Funny, how they think it’s smart,
yet each one mirrors the last,
a futile attempt to impress.
Instead, let’s linger on the sofa’s embrace,
indulging in a shared food coma,
watching shows until they fade to black,
embracing the artistry of everyday moments,
finding solace in simplicity.
Avoid the scripted endeavors,
for no bouquet can soothe a headache,
nor empty vases fill the void within.
Don’t, no, don’t buy me flowers,
just be present, unadorned, and real.
In silvered glass, a world’s reflection lies,
A mirror, an oracle of truth and guise.
A surface that holds both secrets and light,
Echoing tales of day and veiled night.
Its silvered face, an unyielding canvas,
Captures the essence, the soul’s nuances.
Reflecting visages, each face it meets,
Mirroring joys, and sorrows it greets.
Yet beyond mere glass and its reflecting sheen,
Lies a deeper metaphor, a narrative unseen.
For in life’s grand theater, we too play a part,
Reflections of the soul, a mirrored heart.
Sometimes it mimics, exact in replication,
Other times, distorts in playful aberration.
A mirror’s truth, a subtle, shifting guise,
Revealing layers beneath, where honesty lies.
With cracks that mar its once flawless view,
Each fracture echoes what time can accrue.
Scars on the surface, a story etched deep,
A mirror’s wisdom in the scars it keeps.
So, in life’s reflection, as we journey through,
Let’s grasp the truths a mirror may imbue.
For in its reflections, both clear and unclear,
We find the fragments that make us sincere.
In shadows draped, a numbness clings,
A pallid hue on life’s frail wings.
The heart’s lament, a silent scream,
In haunted halls, a ghostly dream.
Through mist-clad woods and moonlit woe,
A soul adrift, where echoes grow.
The chill of void, a spectral shroud,
Embrace of numb, in whispers loud.
A pallor masks the pain within,
Where darkness reigns, where sorrows spin.
Each step, a hollow, silent tread,
In chambers cold, where hope lies dead.
A specter dwells in this abyss,
Where numbness sways, where feelings miss.
In cryptic verse, the ache resides,
In gothic tones, where numbness hides.
People talking, but all I hear is static
Faces blurring, but I try not to panic
Deafening silence makes it all so erratic
Colors bleeding, it’s achromatic
Caught in a cycle, perpetual and dogmatic
Thoughts are whirling, why am I dramatic?
Is silence a magic?
No, it’s just traumatic
But in the whispers of silence, truth seems prophetic.
Is it in the quiet moments that clarity becomes emphatic?
Or in this sea of noise, does wisdom find its attic?
Perhaps within the silence lies a truth democratic,
Where the whispers of our soul speak, far from the dramatic.
in a crowded cafe, i noticed a man who meticulously folded his napkin into perfect squares before placing it on his lap. did he find solace in these meticulous rituals, i wondered? did every action serve a purpose, carefully curated to uphold an impeccable facade? he glanced around, eyes scanning the room with a studied glance. did he calculate the impressions he left behind, each movement meticulously orchestrated? was his fastidiousness a shield against the chaotic unpredictability of life, a way to control the uncontrollable? i refrained from mentioning the ink smudge on his cuff or the restless tapping of his foot beneath the table. did he obsess over these perceived imperfections, or was it simply a relentless pursuit of order amidst life’s disorder? perhaps, it was merely his preference for structure in a world of chaos. maybe my thoughts wove elaborate tales, finding significance where none existed. or perhaps, behind his precise demeanor, lay a universe of intricate complexities, a story waiting to be told.