gold spills low
across the tide
where sea foam
catches the dying light
and turns to liquid embers
the sky
a canvas stretched thin
between twilight blue
and burning orange
brushed with wild
feathered clouds
at the edge of the world
the ocean lifts the sun
from its sleeping horizon
in a soft rushing whisper
it’s as if the morning itself
cannot help but remind
me of you
because everything beautiful
always does
*Picture is my own*
I leave flowers on your grave
soft offerings for a silence
that never answers
their petals stir in the wind
as if they too are trying
to speak your name without breaking
I kneel beside
the earth that keeps you
wondering how something so vast
can fit inside a handful of memories
the flowers will wither
the seasons will turn
but grief has its own roots
growing deeper each time
I come here looking for you
in a place that can only
hold your bones
and never the light you left behind
and still
I bring them
not because you can see them
but because love has never learned
how to arrive empty handed
I tell myself that somewhere
beyond my understanding
you knew I was here
that every bloom
is another way of saying
I have not forgotten
one day my hands
will stop bringing flowers
but until then
they will keep blooming
where my heart still insists
you are only sleeping
I often wonder
in moments
of untold stories
waiting to be read
how many words
will need to be written
until we find our way
back together
how many pages
must the heart turn
before the ink dries
on the distance between us
and our story
begins again
how many chapters
must time quietly unfold
before your name
finds its way
back into mine
and how many endings
must we survive
before we understand
we were always
the beginning
take me where the light is gentle
barely waking the world
where shadows stretch
like whispered secrets
and the air holds its breath
skin glowing in the hush
between night and day
open without shame
hands tracing
the quiet promise of morning
slow and deliberate
like a vow
spoken without words
touch me
in this fragile light
where everything feels new
and everything is possible
where the warmth of your breath
presses softly against my skin
and time slows to the rhythm
of our joined heartbeats
hold me here
in the light that drapes us
like a secret
and let me melt
into the soft edges
of dawn’s embrace
if love had a language
your eyes would be
my favorite chapter
the one I return to
when the world forgets
how to be gentle
they speak
without the burden of words
holding entire seasons
inside a single glance
a quiet alphabet of warmth
of storms survived
of dawns still waiting to happen
I have learned the shape of hope
in the way your gaze lingers
how silence becomes a sanctuary
when it is shared between us
every blink
turns another page
every smile hidden there
is a sentence I never tire of reading
and if one day
the rest of the story fades
if time scatters its pages
to the wind
I will always remember
the language your eyes
taught my heart
that love is not always spoken
but endlessly understood
I know each line of your face
like verses in a poem
I’ve memorized by heart
the gentle curve where laughter lives
the faint crease of past storms
weathered in silence
the soft trace time has dared
to leave near your eyes
not as a thief but as an artist
each line is a map
of joy
of ache
of sleepless wonder
I’ve traced them with my eyes
a thousand times
and still they catch me off guard
like a favorite song played
slow and low in the dark
to know your face
is to know a story
without needing words
a story that keeps unfolding
even when you’re still
the silhouette of my body
is a quiet shoreline at dusk
all curve and hush
outlined in borrowed light
it does not need to be seen
it simply stands
a dark bloom against the evening
soft thunder held in stillness
my shoulders are small horizons
my hips a slow question
the night leans in to answer
in shadow
I am less detail
more feeling
a whisper shaped like a woman
a flame without flame
a story told only in outline
and somehow
in the absence of light
I become entirely myself
let me down easy
not with silence
settling like dust
on everything we built
not with a door
closing so softly
I mistake it
for the wind
if you have to leave
leave like evening
slow enough
for the light to understand
tell me the truth
before it hardens
into stories
i’ll spend years
trying to untangle
I can survive
the clean edge
of honesty
it’s the dull blade
of maybe
the weight of almost
the unanswered room
that keeps drawing blood
so if my name
has grown too heavy
set it down
look at me
long enough
to remember
I was once
your favorite place
to arrive
then go
I won’t ask
the horizon
to turn around
*Picture is my own*
we began as margins
empty spaces waiting for a hand
to spill ink into our quiet
you did not read me
you memorized the shape
of my syntax
running a thumb
along the rough cut of my edges
until the dust of old chapters cleared
revealing the spine
we are not written in a rush
we are the slow turn of heavy paper
the smell of old bindings
and the afternoon sun
trapped between sheets of parchment
I have found myself folded down
at the corner of your thoughts
a creased memory
you keep returning to in the dark
here in the white space
between the paragraphs
where the author fell silent
we speak not in words
but in the weight of punctuation
the soft exhale of a semicolon
the breathless pause
before the next line begins
let the world close its heavy cover
let the shelves grow dark around us
we are pressed together
in the quiet typography
two separate stories
bound into the very same breath
the path remembers us
every stone still holds
the quiet weight
of your hand finding mine
simply to say
I’m here
and I love you
beneath these old trees
where even time hangs gently
from the branches
your fingers folded into mine
like they had always known
the shape of my loneliness
since then
every empty bench looks as though
it has been saving a place
for the warmth we left behind
I could walk this road
a thousand times alone
yet my palm would keep searching
for the memory of your touch
because some hands
never really let go
they become
the way you carry love
long after the path disappears
The Creative Chic 