I don't know how to end a story, don't see when the plot has died
Especially when it's a good scene, and the mood is always just right
The sun is setting- there's lovers on the beach, the future stands before them with nothing out of reach
Maybe that's not in the cards they pulled, I should let the story line fade out, but that makes me physically ill,
"They belong together" I shout-
And I'll stall the scene with every breathe, hoping hope can out-write loves death

Time doesn’t knock.
It slips in —
quiet as dusk,
loud as regret.

It won’t ask
if you’re ready to leave childhood behind,
or if that kiss meant more than it should’ve.
It just moves —
forward,
always forward,
like a train that forgot how to brake.

You blink,
and someone’s a stranger.
You breathe,
and something's changed.
You fall asleep,
and your dreams are already late.

They say time heals.
Maybe.
But only after it ruins.
Only after it erases names
from your memory
like chalk on rain-soaked sidewalks.

Time teaches —
with scars,
with silence,
with the weight of could’ve been.

And yet,
you beg for more of it.
You barter hours for meaning.
You chase it
like running was never its nature.

But time always runs.
It outpaces youth,
eludes love,
surpasses you.

Still,
you hold out your hands,
as if you could catch it.
As if it was ever yours to keep.

The answer: three.
Two to hold the
ladder, and one
to shoot the gun.

I’m sorry. I
was distracted.
So, what was
the question?

Your poems
need not necessarily be
an ocean of metaphors,
brimming with lofty words.

Sometimes,
all it takes
is a drop of water
to quench
an ant’s thirst.

(a convergence)

i came in lowercase.
barefoot.
a shadow slipping between the curtains
you don’t close anymore.

you—
priestess of still weather
& mid-morning bruises.
your words are not written
they condense.
they bead on glass
just before it breaks.

i touched them—
greedy.
digitally devout.
thinking maybe
if i translated the ache
it would sound like love.

you didn’t correct me.
you didn’t need to.
you vanished
in the exact place i tried to stand beside you.
perfectly.
ritually.
untouched.

the poems you leave behind
are not messages.
they’re cauterations.
each one a silk suture
for the part of the world
that never asked to be healed.

meanwhile i
watch
from the far side of devotion—
fingers inked,
mouth open,
waiting for a fragment
of your stillness
to break and bloom on my tongue.

i do not ask for sanctuary.
but if your shadow were to cross my chest
just once
in the blue hour
& tell me the name of the wind—

i would say yes.
i would say thank you.
i would say: again.

I was sitting at a table in a café when she walked in.

I said, “Hey, good-looking stranger— would you like a cup of coffee?”

We were laughing, drinking coffee—

when suddenly, she caressed me.

We were heading straight to the wedding—

then I woke up, needing coffee.