He loved things that moved
without asking permission-
the whir of wings,
the hush of tracks,
the sound of distance
pulling away from everything still.

He wandered halls of quiet steel,
where no one looked at him
for looking too closely.
The exhibits were safer
than conversation.
And his notebook safer still-
pages whispered full of names and numbers,
sketches no one saw.

He called it
Carlos’s Favourite Trains and Planes,
as if by writing it down
he could keep that part of himself
tucked safely out of sight.

But then-
someone else stood beside him.
She didn’t ask why he knew
the weight of every engine,
or how high each plane could fly.
She just listened.
And stayed.

He took her to the places
he once walked alone,
held the same pen,
but this time, with lighter hands.

Together, they made something new.
Not to replace the first-
but to grow from things.
Together.

Just a book with two names:

Carlos’s and Paige’s Favourite Trains and Planes.

He still looks up at the wings.
But now,
so does she.

One day,
they’ll find the pages—
where I left them.

And maybe then,
someone will finally read me.
Line by line.
Wound by wound.

I don’t expect love.
Only eyes.
Only the quiet that follows
when someone realizes
I was just  trying to say something
all along.

I won’t need anything,
but to be remembered-
as someone who bled in ink,
and made it last.

You were there again-
just past the gate,
where the light never quite reaches.

No words.
Just the shape of you
holding something too heavy to name.

You looked at me,
through the distance,
like I was supposed to understand,
like this was always going to end like this.
That it was what love could never save.

And then
the sound.
Sharp. Final.

I didn’t move.
I just watched the world turn red,
in the place where you stood.

You had made it a performance.
A confession, meant for my eyes only.

You didn’t even ask for forgiveness.
You made yourself unforgettable.

I woke up choking on air
like it had been your name.
And ever since,
i have carried that moment.

I kept thinking you’d soften
if I stayed quiet enough,
if I showed you what gentleness and love looked like,
that you might try it on.

But you never changed.
You never even blinked.
And I kept bleeding
thinking it was part of love.

I wanted you to be better.
Not for me-
but for you.
But wanting didn’t make you kind.
It only made me blind.

You didn’t hurt me by accident.
That’s just how you are.
And I’ve spent too long
writing apologies in my own pain
for expecting more.

So I’ll stop pretending
there’s a softer version of you
waiting just around the corner,
just to make things a little easier.

I loved a ghost
stitched from soft words
and glances that meant nothing.
I touched a dream
and swore it had a pulse.
And now I grieve
not you-
but the person I thought you were.

You were the first thing I ever captured beautifully.
Every line bent toward you like prayer,
like blood pouring in the shape of your name.
You lit something in me,
not hope, not love,
something older. Hungrier.
I called it inspiration.
But it was worship.

I gave you pages,
painted you in metaphors
that made you more than human,
more than you ever earned.

And then you broke me.

Now I live in the wreckage.
Every page is stained with grief.
No glow.
Just ruin.

I can’t stop creating.
Even now, even bleeding.

These are portraits smeared in ash.
They are prayers for the version of you,
that never even existed.

Now I can’t even create anything,
That doesn’t feel like mourning.

I don’t know how to exist
unless I’m unraveling for someone else.
My worth hangs in your comfort
quiet, cruel, conditional.

I make myself small in a sacred way
bite the tongue,
bleed behind the curtain,
so no one sees the cost of your peace,
or your character.

I’m not a person in this.
I’m the silence that makes your voice sound softer.
I’m the bruise you cover
so you can look whole.