Why does every lover return to you somehow?

I still stalk about you—
in rooms you’ve never been,
through digital shadows
and half-lit memories
where your voice once lived.

I trace your name
in the fog of mirrors,
click through photos
like rosary beads,
each one a tiny ache,
a litany of ifs.

I scroll until my fingers numb,
searching for the shape of you
in strangers’ reflections—
the curve of a laugh,
the outline of a jacket
you once wore into winter.

I know your new routines.
The ones that don’t include me.
The songs you’ve added,
the cities you’ve ghosted through.
Even your smiles feel rehearsed now—
or maybe they always were.

I haunt the timelines
like a relic looking for worship.
Like maybe you’ll post a sign
that you remember me too.

But you never do.

Still, I stalk about you—
in quiet hours
and reckless ones,
when my body forgets how to be alone
without whispering your name
into the dark like a warning.

There is no closure.
Just the endless echo
of someone who once looked back
but didn’t stop.

I am the sum of every longing—
the dreamer
and the dream
made flesh.

I am the god I search for in silent hours,
the altar
and the offering
laid bare upon it.

I am the prayer,
whispered through clenched teeth,
half hope,
half hunger.

I am the beginning—
the first inhale,
the first cry,
the first breaking.

I am the end—
the final word,
the fading light,
the quiet surrender.

I am the exhibitionist.
I am the ******.
I am the mirror
and the eye that never blinks.

All that I am,
all that I will be,
begins and ends within me.

I am the predator.
I am the prey.
The claw,
the wound,
the blood between.

I am rebirth.
I am death.
The flame
and the ash.

I am the giver.
I am the taker.
The mother.
The child.
The echo,
and the voice
calling out into it.

I AM
I AM
I AM.

I drink to remember you.

Red wine spills onto my white pages and glass cuts my fingers as I pick it up.

I've said too much.
Too many midnights
spilling your name into empty pages like it's a prayer-or a curse still you’re fading with each turn of the moon I forget.

I should be done trying to hold onto you but you’re fading like a ghost
that no longer cares to haunt me.

I burned your poems, your paintings, and your letters the smoke rose like absolution.

But the fire didn’t cleanse
It remembered
It whispered your words back to me in ash.

I drink to remember you
Until the silence forgets you,
Until I forget
why I ever cared to remember

Toes entwined, our bodies meld into one, hot and feverent skin sliding against each other in a feverish embrace.

The heat of our small, suffocating room wraps around us like a heavy shroud, yet we cling together, defying its oppressive grip.

The air is thick and saturated with warmth and sweat, each breath an effort as the room seems to pulse with our shared intensity.

I press my lips to your damp forehead, the perspiration mingling with my kiss, and in that fleeting moment, I have never been more in love.

The taste of salt lingers on my lips, a reminder of the afternoon’s heat and passion.

My fingers trace through your hair, every touch a story of our gothic cocoon written in the silence and shadow of our small, fevered sanctuary.

In this hallowed space, where shadows dance and time stands still and the walls draped in unspoken vows.

I find love unyielding, unaddressed and unabiding.

I find myself putting on a show for eyes that do not see me as human. My movements are rehearsed, not for the joy of expression, but for the survival of a woman in a world that prefers her to be spectacle.

Slowly slipping the silk of my shoulders teasing no one but the walls. The air around me is cool, indifferent, The only thing that touches me without expectation.

I am a wisp of flesh bound to earth only by wanting. A hollow figure made whole by his eyes, seeking to hold me to drag me here in this world of flesh, But I am not of it. I am thought. I am soul. I am the poetry of my own being, I am more than the silence he assumes speaks only of longing.

But I will always be flesh, The embodiment of desire, A symbol, a thing-never a whole. An empty chalice into which he pours The wine of his longing, never wondering If the vessel itself thirsts for something more.

And so the silk falls, Again and again,
For an audience that never understands
The torment of playing a role
That was never meant to be mine.

Each day I mourn, I rot within my cell,  
A prisoner to my own foul decay,  
Dazed and confused, repulsed by the display.
Sweet is the stench of garments worn too long,  
Of rotting fare beside my fevered bed,  
A rank perfume from A quiet tomb where all but hope has fled.

Beneath the sheets, I sink to shadow's maw,  
Into the void, where nothing else is fed,  
But the cold embrace of self and flaw.  
My flesh fused with cloth in grim despair,  
A grotesque union 'twixt the flesh and grave,  
Where I consume myself, a feast of air.

The night becomes a grim theatre where my repressed sorrows play out.
A mournful tale of life and death unfolds,  
A spark, once brilliant, now fades to a mere wisp,  
A fleeting ember in the shadowed night.

And thus, in sorrow’s grip, I waste away,  
A ghostly shadow of what once was whole.  
The creeping rot consumes both night and day,  
Till nothing but my wretched bones remain.  
Each breath I draw, a prelude to my fall,  
Each tear, a testament to endless pain.  

A mirror shows my face, a hollow mask,  
Reflecting not the youth I used to be,  
But haunted eyes that beg the final task—  
To free this soul from torment's cruel decree.  
In darkness deep, I yearn for dawn’s soft light,  
To break these chains that bind me to the night.