Tag Archives: thecreativechic

Love remains

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*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

Untold stories

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11

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

Captured

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18

*Picture is my own*

I do not photograph the world as it is.
I photograph the moments when it reveals itself.

The sliver of light that finds a forgotten corner. The hands that carry years of stories. The glance that disappears before anyone else notices. The quiet places where life leaves its fingerprints.

Photography, for me, is not about simply capturing what is in front of the lens. It is about noticing what others might pass by. It is about finding the quiet details, the fleeting emotions, and the pieces of life that often exist for only a moment.

I walk through noise searching for silence. I look through glass searching for truth. I wait for the heartbeat between what happens and what is gone.

A photograph is not just an image.
It is a promise that something existed.

A feeling.
A place.
A person.
A piece of time that refused to disappear.

I do not chase perfection.
I chase honesty.

The blur.
The shadow.
The imperfections that make a moment human.

Because sometimes the most beautiful photographs are not the ones that are flawless. They are the ones that feel alive. The ones that hold a story, a memory, or a feeling that brings us back to a moment we thought was lost.

My camera is not a witness.
It is a translator.

It turns light into memory, seconds into stories, and the invisible into something we can finally see.

Every photograph is a conversation between the world and the person behind the lens. A quiet reminder to slow down, to pay attention, and to recognize the beauty that exists in the ordinary.

I photograph because the world is always speaking.

I am simply here to listen.

Dawn’s Embrace

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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

My favorite chapter

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37

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

Memorized

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32

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

Borrowed light

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35

*Picture is my own. Turned into a silhouette with AI*

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

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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


Inkbound

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27

*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


Remembering

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*Picture is my own*

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