I press my hand down,
Slowly, onto the surface
Taking in all of what I feel
A slow still, a polite chill

I think it's oak, maybe mangrove
Aged richly to a russet fade
I trace the grains,
Nothing to be unsee.

There's hints of umber
And a dash of pecan,
A smell so earthy, divine
Softly coated so nothing splinters

Lines trace the frame
Like a painter pieces a canvas
Swirled lines like calligraphy
A piece of art.

Why must I be within your heart
This hurts as I wanted to leave,
When with eternity you grow,
And every fare declines way.

This could mean I shall stay,
But for whom,
Just for you.

I've been burned many times in my life
From a stove, a fire,
A lighter or a match,
A candle or its wax

Even just from food—  
A drink taken too soon  
Scalded my tongue—  
Now nothing tastes the same.

My feelings, too,
Laid bare like a muscle,
Pulled from within,
Blazed,
With a flame,
That burned what couldn't last.

And the only way to teach  
That fire is hot  
Is to let someone  
Touch it,
Because will  
Can’t be stopped.

,

"I told you it was hot,
But you had to see for yourself,
Now you have that ugly mark"

You reached for the comfort—  
But it shattered like delph.
Now cold water
Is all that listens.

But no water calms the ache
Rising from the burn,
Already blooming-
On your hand.

Because wonder outweighed warning—  
You had to know the flame.

Lunch breaks, school plays
Why you had me as the fool played?
I loved you, but I can't stay.

She never comments.
Never signs her name on my board.
She just sits quietly in my silence,
gathering something that once gathered me.

Now I find myself
hanging in her gallery of words—
a whisper, reposted,
a breeze tucked between stanzas.

Each hush she curates
feels like a fragment of heartbreak,
a delicate recollection
made sacred in its echo.

Her eyes—so magical, so beautiful,
her soul shines through.
No matter how, it just does:
a perfect human, with a glance
that claims.

She doesn’t take the stage—
she owns it, she lives it.
Every blink makes the world flicker—
a soft fire burning
without permission.

I can’t tell if I’m falling in love
or just living in awe of a being so perfect.
She’s sitting across from me,
and it’s unbearable—

the way her fingers trace the rim of her glass,
like it’s the most intimate thing in the room.
She shifts slightly, and so does the gravity in my chest.
I haven’t said anything.
Probably for the best.

Because my hands tremble beneath the table—
not from fear,
but from the ache of holding back everything I’d say
if I believed I deserved to be heard.

Her eyes—still rimmed in that inky black—
don’t glance, they lock.
She sees something—maybe me,
or maybe she’s just letting me believe it.

Her lips look like velvet left out in moonlight—
soft, secret, poetic.
Like every word she’d speak writes itself.
I reach for the strength to stay fated,
holding the silence like it’s sacred.

She doesn’t talk much.
She doesn’t need to.
Her silence hums louder than a crowded room,
and I’m starstruck by her presence.

Her laugh fills the room with a kind of passion—
too alive to ignore.
It makes me unravel.
And I’m not sure if I want to run
or lean closer
and ask her to say my name.

Family has always been  
a vague concept to me.  
You let me into yours—  
still, I didn’t feel at home.

It takes time to unlearn a broken mold,  
a family so heartless, so cold,  
to find one that truly loves—  
through thick and thin.

At your family’s table,  
laughter rings like wind chimes—  
familiar, effortless, soft.  
Your family leans in, passing bowls with ease;  
My family stands back—hands buried in pockets.

My family could never sit that close  
without shattering glassware,  
or silence heavier  
with every breath.

My family was meant to be broken...  
too many flavors of opinions,  
none who get along,  
forever far from resilience.

Even yours isn’t perfect,  
But their warmth comes so easily
Why does mine freeze at every smile?
You say your family is crazy,
but they show up—  
more than mine ever did.

Some remember me—  
a cousin, a daughter,  
a memory with laughter,  
on quiet Sundays  
when the kettle’s on  
and the world feels soft.  

Others keep me tucked  
in unopened branches—  
too polite to reach,  
too distant to prune,  
unbothered by who's missing whom.

But your family—  
they make it seem effortless,  
being together for a reason  
other than obligation,  
regardless the season.

They love openly,  
and welcome those who are new—  
an additional member to be let in,  
a new story to be explored and loved.  

That’s never how my family was.
Just hands in pockets,
and doors half-closed.
Not even close.