We drift within vanished memories, our obscured
individuality.
Each experience —
a hollow fragment of oneself we can't hold.
Our hands though clasped,
can never tangle into one.
No storm could shatter the walls each long hold.

Our souls orbit in polyphony,
never quite colliding.
Intimacy pirouettes at the extremity of an abyss–
silently.
A fissure runs between two hearts
beating synchronously,
yet searching solitude.
Our hearts–
a silent sea where longing wanders away.

I trace the marks on your face,
quietly, deeply.
Hoping a map could lead to the depths,
of your soul.
But I am trapped in shadows of uncertainty,
where words flounder
and secrets lie.
We lean towards one another,
yet inwardness no matter how close–
guarantees a distance.

Perhaps we aren't lovers but actors playing.
Here I am lying –
in the void of emptiness,
refusing to accept that distance kills intimacy.
In my mind,
remains fragments of our memories.
Maybe we never truly found love–
only lost in each other's embrace.

@noirwhisky

If you don't know where the trail will go
Why be tempted to find out
Stick to what you know you know
Don't listen to your doubts

We don't know how the debate will end
So why start the discussion
Stick to trusted monologues
Don't risk their deconstruction

You're safe with the true tried and tested
With the solace of the known
So don't be so curious
Stay here in our comfort zone.

I’ve got
seven songs
on repeat.

They don’t ask me to talk.
They don’t tell me to cheer up.
They just play,
quietly,
loudly,
however I need them.

Vestige
whispers
like a ghost I once knew,
soft, aching—
it holds my breath in its careful hands
and never asks
why I’m fading.

Caramel drips down
slow and sweet,
like it knows my ribs
are tired of holding it all in.
It doesn’t try to fix me—
it just sits,
a quiet sadness
that understands.

When The Sun Sleeps
doesn’t sleep at all—
it screams,
loud, raw, honest.
It bleeds the things I buried
and somehow,
that noise feels more like home
than silence ever did.

Overflow crashes like a wave
right when I thought I was dry.
It drowns me—
but gently,
like rage that remembers
I’m still human.

To The Flowers
sounds like falling apart
and finally letting go.
It’s heavy,
but blooms in the dark,
grief growing
into something real.

Nero Forte fights for me
when I’m too tired to fight myself.
It’s chaos—pure,
relentless—
a storm I can scream into
and still
walk out of.

When It Rains
makes me feel fifteen and fragile,
but soft enough
to remind me
I’m not wrong
for feeling everything
too much.

These seven songs don’t save me.
They don’t have to.
They just stay—
and some nights,
that’s the only thing
that keeps me here.

the light bursts through, glowing
not scattered or winnowing in
the grasses are thick, and even taller still
the creek itself is quiet, but there are children playing there,
among the ticks and cats, birds and gnats
and here, i realize i am more alive
than i have ever been

The burning condition,
Burnout of though.
To dream to be,
Impossible for sickly roe.
The rot of being,
The not of doing.
Anxiety, tempting it covers,
A blanket of roughness.
A coffin of distress.
I will bring blackness,
Though empty it may be.
I bring the darkness,
I bring comfort.

We know that which we know.
That being that we only know
That which is learning, to grow.
That knowing is to learn.
It is to never completely be sure
Of that which you already understand,
Yet to be totally assured.
For in that ignorance,
There is wisdom.

The mountains do not flinch
at what the world has done.
They hold their silence
in granite outcroppings—
scarred, still,
older than sorrow,
yet never indifferent to it.

She came to the ridge
where the cold wind weaves
between trees older than memory.
It touched her like a voice—
not kind,
not cruel,
just knowing.

And that knowing
wrapped around her ribs
like a truth she never chose to carry.

She stood beneath the pines,
her face turned to sky,
and the weight of it all
finally broke through—
tears carving warmth
into cheeks too long hardened.

Then her head
pressed to my chest—
as if to ask
if anything was strong enough
to stay.

And I knew.
I was built for this.
To stand right here.
To hold what broke her
and not let it fall further.

The wind moved on—
but something stayed:
a stillness
a hush

a warmth in the marrow
of what had once been frozen.


Not every wind will cut so cold.
Not every ache will hold.
And not everything un-beautiful
was meant to remain that way.

Tomorrow, the trees will still be here.
And the creek will still run clear.
But so will she—
with something inside
that now knows:

even the wounded
can become
the most beautiful thing
the mountains have ever seen.

When love knocks,
it’s not from the deadbeat of your pain-stricken heart,
nor the dread of laughter you dare not experience.
It does not come from the agony of the past.

When love visits,
it comes like a wave of fresh air
a relief from your previous anguish.
Love arrives and consumes you whole.
Ready or not, you’ll feel it deep in your bones.

You’ll feel the goosebumps
and this time, not from your anxiety,
but as a gentle reminder telling you to breathe.

When it finally arrives,
it engloves you in a garden.
It waters your dying soul
until it blooms into a canvas of colorful flowers.

And this time,
love comes with certainty
no second-guessing,
just reassurance in its fullest form.

When love knocks,
I pray you’re able to see it.
no longer waiting,
no longer biased
just you,
allowing yourself to fall under its gaze.

When love visits,
I pray you’re prepared for it.