your love
arrives like the ocean
a rhythm older than memory
moving through me
in endless waves
sometimes it brushes the shore
with quiet hands
leaving traces of light
on everything it touches
sometimes it rises
deep and untamed
filling every corner of my heart
with its tide
I stand at its edge
listening
and with every return
it teaches me
how beautiful it is
to be carried
Tag Archives: creative-writing
Hues
you make me see
a thousand colors
not just the ones
the sky spills at dusk
but the kind that live in things unspoken
in the pause before a reply
in the space where distance used to sit
you teach light new ways to exist
there are hues
I never knew had names
like the blue
between breath and silence
where thoughts hover
just before they become words
or the gold
that vibrates in your laughter
warm enough to soften time itself
you touch the gray in me
like it was never meant to stay stone
it loosens
becomes lavender in slow unraveling
then deepens
burns into crimson
then spills further still
into colors I don’t have language for yet
even the dullest corners of me
start remembering how to burn
and the shadows
the ones I used to mistake for endings
learn they can shift
that they are not absent but waiting
and they begin to shimmer
like they’ve been holding light
the whole time
when you’re near
Facade
in shadows cast
by a broken facade
we once existed
in this old home
stained glass
from hushed secrets
the lies fell one by one
on the ledge
a breath away from freedom
these empty walls
now echo with echos
absorbing words of anger
stale smoke now lingers
through every room
screaming to be heard
but no one there to listen
and somewhere inside
that fragmented place
a part of her is still there
hidden in memories
Friday reminder
Don’t start your day carrying the broken pieces of yesterday.
The mistakes, disappointments, and hurts that followed you to bed do not deserve a permanent place at your breakfast table. Every morning arrives with a quiet invitation to begin again, to loosen your grip on what cannot be changed and make room for what still can.
Yesterday has already spoken. Let it rest.
Today is a blank page waiting for your footsteps, your choices, and your courage. Walk into it with open hands, not clenched fists full of old pain.
Some things are meant to stay behind so you can move forward.
Have a wonderful day, friends. I hope each of you feels loved, valued, and appreciated, not just for what you do, but for who you are.
Love,
Jennifer ❤️
Absence
some nights
I feel like a footnote in a story
too vast to remember me
a brief flicker of consciousness
caught between ancient stars
and the silence that will outlive them
the world carries on
with its indifferent cadence
and I wonder if my absence
would leave even the smallest crease
in the fabric of things
I shrink beneath the weight of galaxies
of centuries
of all that existed before me
and all that will remain
when my name has dissolved into dust
and still I stand here
a fragile thing aching to matter
in a universe that never promised
I would
Gravity
before the first breath
of the cosmos
we were an unspoken syntax
tangled in the black
velvet throat of the void
there was no calendar
to bleed us dry
no horizon to split the dark
into yesterday and tomorrow
we existed in the unmeasured space
between a sigh and the spark
a quiet architecture of gravity
waiting for a universe to inhabit
you were silence
and I was listening
we did not need light
to find each other
we were already the warmth
that the cold
unborn stars
would later try to mimic
Sun-kissed
the sun found her slowly
as she lay beneath the open sky
spilling gold along the length
of her bare arms
resting in the delicate hollow
of her throat
sliding over her skin
as though it had all afternoon
and nowhere else to be
she turned her face
toward the warmth
eyes half-closed
and light gathered on her like honey
soft
luminous
impossible not to notice
every small shift
caught another shimmer
a quiet fire awakening
beneath the surface
while the breeze
wandered over her
jealous of the places
the sunlight lingered
and there she remained
wrapped in nothing
but summer and radiance
the day unfolding
around her body
the sun tracing its slow devotion
across the landscape of her skin
Storms
there are storms inside me
that no forecast could name
thunder lives beneath my ribs
lightning splits old wounds open
and whole oceans
rise behind my eyes
some days I am all turbulence
all dark skies and restless wind
the rain never seems to finish
it only finds new ways to fall
flooding the places I thought
had already drowned
and I carry the wreckage quietly
as if no one can hear
the storm still raging within me
Between the lines
each page
soft like your breath
I trace the edges of you
the ink of your voice curling
in the spaces between words
whispered but never quite silent
we are an unfinished story
the kind you leave open
just to feel the rhythm of possibility
breathe against your skin
your touch
a paragraph that lingers
sweet in the margins
of my thoughts
there’s a chapter where time slips
where we fall through the cracks
where your smile is the heading
and the ending never arrives
a single sentence
stretching into eternity
in another
our bodies meet
like two verses colliding
delicate
fragile
and perfect
in their syncopated rhythm
I learn you
again and again
we write and rewrite
soft touches
that turn to echoes
whispers that move
like ink in water
and when the chapter closes
we are still between the lines
living in the paragraphs that remain
Unhidden
We all carry parts of ourselves that we keep hidden: fears, insecurities, grief, anger, loneliness, or memories we rarely speak about. Over time, we learn how to present the version of ourselves that feels safest: the strong version, the successful version, the easy-to-love version. Meanwhile, the heavier truths stay tucked away beneath the surface.
But the parts we hide never truly disappear. They show up in the way we protect ourselves, in the walls we build, and in the quiet moments when we feel disconnected from who we really are. Often, the traits we judge most harshly in ourselves began as forms of survival.
The truth is, being human means carrying contradictions. We can be confident and insecure, hopeful and afraid, healing and hurting all at once. No one is as put together as they seem.
Healing is not about becoming perfect or erasing the messy parts of ourselves. It is about learning to face them with honesty and compassion instead of shame. Because when we stop treating our hidden parts like enemies, we begin to feel whole again.
And maybe that is what connection really is: realizing that everyone else is hiding something too. We are all perfectly imperfect, and you know what? That’s good enough.
Lots of love,
Jennifer ❤️
The Creative Chic 