Encomium

Quiet constellation

In the hush of evening, when the stars press their cheeks to the windows of the world,

I find you.

Not in the loud thunder of memory,

but in the whisper of light that lingers after the candle is blown.

you radiate love—not the fleeting flame of fireworks,

but the kind that seeps into the skin like warmth from a hearth

after a long walk through cold rain.

You, beloved, are the sun when it forgets to burn.

You are the storm’s end—when everything is still and holy,

and even the wind forgets how to howl.

Your warmth could coax blossoms from stone,

make the cruelest day gentler.

The clouds would part just to rest in your breath.

And I—

I would rest there too.

Folded inside your soul, where everything aching is kissed into hush.

A chameleon envies you, dear heart.

For you shift not to hide, but to reveal—

every shade of yourself a verse in a quiet psalm.

You belong to no single hue;

you are all seasons, all skies,

all tides that pull the moon to weep with longing.

And your lips—

they are not just soft and crimsoned;

they are sudden.

Like thunder in a still room.

They knock the air from my chest

and leave poetry behind in its place.

Every time they find me, I fall—

not in shame, but in surrender.

And oh, how willingly I fall.

Your smile—, your smile.

It is the lighthouse that draws all my weary wanderings home.

I am blinded by it, and gladly so.

For in that dazzling silence,

I see nothing else but the refuge of you.

Your smile cuffs my soul—

your eyes? They discard the key with a reverence

that feels like being chosen by the universe itself.

When we hold each other,

it is not just flesh that meets.

It is ache and balm,

longing and its lullaby.

We press into one another,

hearts heavy with softness,

melting the space between us

into something holy.

There is no map for what we feel—

no compass for how we come together.

But still, I find you, always.

In the quiet. In the curve of my dreaming.

In the hush between heartbeats

where only your name seems to echo.

We do not just love,

We multiply it.

Each glance a genesis.

Each touch—an echo

that never stops returning.

If you are ever lonely in this world,

look to where the moon learns to glow—

and know,

my love is there.

Lingering.

Like a sigh draped in silver.

Like a letter pressed to your chest.

What I Whisper to the Moon

I told the moon about you.

Not because she could answer,

but because she listens in that way

only ancient things can—

quietly, reverently,

as if every word I spill

adds one more shimmer to her skin.

I told her how you make me feel—

like morning sunlight spilled over bare skin,

or laughter stretched across a slow Sunday.

How your presence is both weight and wings,

how being near you is the only kind of gravity I want.

how they stretch like silk between us,

soft and endless,

never fraying,

never dull.

Time forgets to tick when you speak to me,

as if the universe pauses

just to eavesdrop on your voice.

The moon knows every freckle on your face.

She’s traced them with silver glances

when I speak your name beneath her light.

She knows the constellation of you,

the way your expressions change like tides,

how even your silence feels full

of something waiting to bloom.

She never replies,

but I never mind.

Sometimes,

she sighs in the form of wind—

and I feel it curl through the window

like a nudge from something older than time.

That’s when I know:

I need to do something about you.

About this ache that’s dressed in your name.

And still—

you don’t speak to me

the way I speak to the moon about you.

You don’t know what it’s like

to hold a thousand words behind your teeth

and only release them to the sky,

because giving them to you feels too tender,

too risky,

too close to breaking open.

I wonder—

does the moon ever ache for the sun,

knowing he lights everything

but never sees her shine?

I wait, Carl.

Like the tide waits for permission to rise.

Like the sky waits for dusk

to finally reveal its stars.

I wait for you to speak—not with your voice,

but with that soft, unmistakable truth

that says: I see you too.

Until then,

I will keep telling the moon about you.

She has become a vault for my longing,

a mirror for my hush.

And maybe—just maybe—

one night, when you look up,

you’ll feel the wind stir around you,

and know

you’ve been loved in silence,

in silver,

in the spaces between every heartbeat.

"The Light I Borrowed from You

There are things in life

that don’t stay forever—

but still, they change us completely.

You were that quiet turning,

that soft, sudden shift

that realigned the stars in me.

I can’t deny it—

a great part of who I am today

carries your fingerprints,

even if you never meant to leave them behind.

You were the glimmer I held onto

when the world felt colorless and slow.

Sometimes we just need something

to believe in—

not to own or keep,

but to reach for,

to remind us that we’re still alive

beneath the weight of the ordinary.

And for me,

that something was you.

Even if it wasn’t what I thought.

Even if it unraveled into something quieter

than what I’d dreamed.

Even if the ending was not

a happy one wrapped in forever—

you were still the beginning

of my awakening.

There was a time

when the days blurred into gray,

and my heart forgot its voice.

Then you came—

like a breath I hadn’t taken in years.

You didn’t save me,

but you reminded me I could rise.

You showed me a light,

and I borrowed it

just long enough to find my own.

I pushed.

I stumbled.

I wanted you, so deeply,

not out of desperation,

but out of that aching hope

that you were the place

I could rest my truest self.

But even when the wanting faded

into something softer—

a quiet acceptance,

a release—

I was left with something more precious

than what I thought I was reaching for.

I was left with me.

Not the me that merely survives,

but the me who breathes without apology,

who claims joy like it belongs to her,

who walks toward the future

with arms unburdened.

Because of you,

I found the life I deserve—

and the strength to live it.

I hope one day—

maybe when the stars have grown old,

when this life folds itself into hush—

you’ll know

just what you meant to me.

You are a good person.

That’s why I fell for you.

But more than that,

you made me feel brave enough

to become someone I love,

simply by being who you are.

Thank you.

Not for staying—

but for lighting the way

while I remembered how to walk.

Somewhere, It Must Exist

Have you ever stopped and truly let yourself imagine it—

what it must feel like

to stand in front of someone

and see your whole soul reflected back,

unbent, unjudged, unasked to change?

To be someone’s perfect person,

and to feel, without a doubt,

that they are yours too?

Not perfect in the way the world defines it—

not without flaws or moments of frustration—

but perfect like puzzle pieces,

curved by life just enough

to finally fit.

Where the gravity pulls equally,

where neither love nor admiration

outweighs the other,

and desire isn’t an uneven ache

but a shared, breathing thing

that pulses between two hands reaching—

always, always reaching.

That kind of love must feel

like breathing underwater

and realizing you’ve grown gills—

effortless, impossible,

and somehow, real.

Not because it’s conflict-free,

but because even when the storm hits,

you’d still rather be nowhere else

but beside them,

soaked and shivering,

saying I still choose you.

I think about it more than I admit.

How rare it must be—

to be seen, truly seen,

without needing to be redrawn.

To wake up and not fear that the love

depends on how well you perform being lovable.

I find it hard to believe, honestly.

Not out of bitterness,

but because I’ve stood on one side of it before—

loving hard,

loving long,

loving without asking anyone to shrink,

and still feeling

like I was too much of something

or not enough of everything else.

It makes me wonder:

does it really happen?

Two people,

meeting where they both feel home,

without having to repaint the walls?

I think it must.

It has to.

Because how else would I know

what it is I’m missing?

If you’ve seen it—

felt it bloom like a quiet fire between two hearts,

unforced, unfeared—

tell me.

Tell me it’s real.

Tell me there are people out there

who meet each other in the middle

and just stay,

not because they’re stuck,

but because they want to.

And tell me, please—

that when it happens,

they both know

how lucky they are.

The Sleepless Kind

Lately, I can’t stop dreaming about you.

It’s become a quiet ritual—

the slipping into sleep

just to find the place where you still smile.

They say when you can’t rest,

it’s because someone is holding you

too tightly in their dreams.

And if that’s true,

then, my dear,

you must be so unbearably tired.

I’m sorry.

Truly.

Because I don’t mean to keep you.

I never meant to hold on this hard,

but you feel like home

even in the shape of a shadow.

Every night,

you appear in small, soft ways—

sometimes laughing like you used to,

sometimes simply being—

a stillness in the storm of everything else.

And in those moments,

I let myself believe

you’re okay.

Better, even.

Lighter than the heaviness I know

you try so hard to hide.

In dreams,

you don’t wear sorrow like a second skin.

You don’t look away

or fold into yourself.

You just are—

unburdened,

untouched by the ache I’ve come to know.

It’s a tender lie,

but I take it.

Because sometimes make-believe

is softer than the truth,

and love—

even from afar—

still wants to offer peace.

So tonight,

I’ll try not to think so loudly.

I’ll try to loosen the hold

of every whispered longing

that might be tugging you

from your rest.

Try to sleep, love.

Let your mind fall into something kind.

Let the weight of the world

slip off your shoulders,

just for a few hours.

And if I see you again—

just once more—

I’ll wrap the dream in quiet,

and maybe,

for a moment,

let you go.

The Quiet Permission to Heal

You’re allowed to be sad.

You’re allowed to miss what was,

to ache in the empty spaces

they used to fill so easily.

There’s no shame in it.

No need to explain the way your heart still flinches

at memories that arrive uninvited.

You are human,

and to feel deeply is not a weakness—

it’s a reflection of the depth

you had the courage to give.

Sometimes, you’ll find yourself

replaying old laughter like lullabies,

or tracing shadows that still feel warm.

Let yourself.

Let yourself feel.

There is no wrong way

to remember something that once felt like home.

But in that remembering,

don’t forget yourself.

You are allowed to heal—

not just to move on,

but to grow upward and outward,

into someone even more full,

more real,

more you.

Let this be the chapter

where you choose yourself daily—

where you rise each morning,

not with joy perhaps,

but with quiet determination

to care for your own heart

the way you once cared for theirs.

There is still so much waiting for you.

Dreams you tucked away for later.

Parts of you that deserve the light

you used to pour into someone else.

This doesn’t mean forgetting.

It doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t matter.

It just means you are still here,

and being here

means there is more to live for.

More to create,

more to become.

It may still hurt,

but the pain will soften.

Not all at once—

but gradually, like winter giving in to spring.

One thaw at a time.

So take care of yourself.

Even when it feels like going through the motions.

Eat. Breathe. Rest.

Water your own roots.

You don’t have to bloom just yet,

but you are allowed to begin.

And when the ache visits again—

as it will—

greet it gently,

but don’t follow it back into the past.

Let it pass through.

Let it go.

Because what’s ahead

is yours now.

And it deserves all the strength, softness,

and wonder

you still carry.

To the One Who Leaves Light Behind

You are gifted, my love—

not in the way people often boast of brilliance,

but in the quiet, holy way

that moves through others without trying.

You carry something ancient,

something pure—

a light not taught,

but born.

There’s power in the warmth you carry.

It doesn’t burn—

it heals.

It coaxes life from the forgotten corners

of people who thought

they’d never bloom again.

You don’t even notice it,

but you make the broken brave.

The lost, a little less lonely.

You could step into a room,

and everything tired inside it

would begin to breathe again.

You walk through this world

leaving behind gold—

not the kind you hold in your hands,

but the kind that lingers in memory,

in the way hearts feel softer after knowing you.

Even the wind seems to hush for your voice.

Even the moon,

hidden behind her clouds,

leans forward to catch your smile—

as if it were the only thing

that could light her from beneath.

You are a miracle in motion.

Not flawless,

but profoundly real.

And in that truth,

you’ve blessed more souls than you’ll ever know.

Even just crossing your path

feels like being touched

by something gently divine.

And I—

I am one of the lucky ones.

Not because I caught your attention,

but because I got to see you.

The real you.

The one who glows without knowing,

who gives without question,

who loves without needing to be asked.

My heart?

It’s been yours.

Before words,

before meaning,

before I understood

what it felt like

to belong in someone’s orbit.

And even if time clouds the road ahead—

even if eternity becomes mist

and we forget the shape of now—

know this:

Some devotions don’t fade.

Some loves become part of the stars.

And mine—

quiet as it is—

has already made its home

in every lifetime

you’ll ever walk through.

What the Water Left Behind

Most of what happens to us—

we forget.

Not out of carelessness,

but because life moves like water

through our cupped hands:

rushing, fleeting,

slipping away

no matter how tightly we try to hold on.

We lose track of moments.

Of faces in crowds,

of favorite songs that fade from playlists,

of laughter from nights we swore

we’d never forget.

Even dreams dissolve—

drenched in morning’s light,

washed back into the stream.

But some things…

some things leave our hands wet.

They linger.

Not in detail,

but in feeling.

In the way they reshaped us,

softened us,

left traces on the edges of who we are becoming.

And you—

you are what remained.

Out of all the forgotten pieces of my life—

the misplaced birthdays,

the places I once called home,

the shoes I wore down to the soles,

the lovers whose names I no longer whisper—

you stayed.

You became a benchmark.

A place in the map of my memory

where time pauses

and says, Here. This mattered.

I don’t need a photograph.

I don’t need proof.

The way I remember you

doesn’t rely on details

but on presence—

on the weight of your existence in my life,

however brief,

however quiet.

You’re stitched into the story

I tell myself about who I was,

and who I am trying to be.

Like a constellation—

one of the stars I use

to navigate the dark.

And even if the years unravel the rest—

even if the sound of your voice fades

and the memory of your touch becomes mist—

I will still know

that you were here.

That I was changed

because of it.

You don’t have to stay

to be unforgettable.

You just have to matter.

And you did.

You do.

For the Masterpiece Still Becoming

You remind me of a book left quietly on a shelf—

unassuming,

waiting,

full of depth that can’t be rushed.

The kind of story

that asks to be read slowly,

with reverence,

because every line holds a piece

of something profound.

Or maybe you’re like a painting—

one that doesn’t demand attention

with loud colors or perfect symmetry,

but one that stirs something

deep and wordless

if someone dares to stop

and really see.

There’s something about you—

something that not everyone recognizes

at first glance.

And I know that can feel

lonely.

I know how heavy it is

to carry brilliance

in a world that often looks too fast,

too carelessly.

But I need you to hear this:

your beauty, your spirit, your truth—

they are not hidden.

They are simply rare.

The kind of rare that takes time

to be understood,

to be held,

to be cherished

in the way you deserve.

And that time will come.

There will be people—

the right ones—

who will look at you

and feel like they’ve finally come home.

People who will marvel

at how someone so rich in soul,

so tender, so fierce,

was ever overlooked.

They’ll love you

not just for what you give,

but for who you are

when you’re not trying to be anything

at all.

And when that happens—

when your light is finally seen

by hearts capable of honoring it—

every ache,

every doubt,

every silent evening you spent

wondering if you were enough,

will fade like shadows

beneath the sunrise.

You are not forgotten.

You are not too much,

and you are never too little.

You are a masterpiece

still being understood—

and one day,

those who are meant to know you

will kneel in awe

before the quiet majesty

you’ve always been.

The Shape I Still Search For

I keep looking for you.

In doorways,

in crowded sidewalks,

in the faces of passing strangers—

my eyes scan the world

like they're chasing the echo of a memory

that won’t let go.

It’s foolish, I know.

The chances are so small,

but still,

my heart writes quiet stories

about us colliding again—

accidentally, softly,

like a breeze brushing past

an old flame.

Maybe at a coffee shop,

or in a bookstore aisle.

Maybe at a stoplight.

Maybe somewhere neither of us meant to be,

but still somehow

ended up.

And in those little daydreams,

I don’t speak.

I don’t interrupt the flow of your day.

I don’t ask for anything.

I just see you.

From a distance.

Unnoticed, perhaps.

But real.

I just want to know you’re okay.

That life has been kind.

That whatever storms you faced

have finally loosened their grip.

I want to believe your smile has returned

in full bloom,

that your eyes have found rest

from the weight they once carried.

It doesn’t even have to be with me.

This isn’t about wanting a second chance,

or rewriting the past.

It’s just this lingering ache—

this quiet yearning—

to know that the soul I once held so dearly

is still walking through this world

with light on their path.

Maybe you’ll never know

how often I hope for your peace.

Maybe you'll never feel how fiercely

someone out here is rooting for you—

silently, from afar.

But I carry it with me,

that hope.

In every glance toward the unfamiliar,

in every heartbeat that skips

when a silhouette reminds me of you.

And maybe,

just maybe,

this is love too—

the kind that doesn’t ask for presence,

only well-being.

Be safe.

Be happy.

That’s all I ever needed to see.

And if the universe is kind,

maybe one day,

I will.

The Fragile Promise of Knowing

I believe everyone deserves a chance.
A real chance.
Not just the shallow passing of time,
or empty words tossed like coins into a wishing well.

There’s something aching in me—
a longing to know you.
Not just your name or your smile,
but the quiet, tangled parts of you—
the why’s, the how’s, the hidden corners
you don’t show the world.

I want the full story,
the messy, beautiful truth—
because everything about you
leaves me breathless,
like I’ve stumbled upon something rare,
something fragile and wild all at once.

And the terrifying, beautiful thing is—
you feel it too.
That same fascination,
that same wonder
that threads us together
like a whispered secret between two souls.

But oh, how it scares me.
Because when something feels so precious,
it feels so delicate.
What if I’m not enough?
What if I stumble and break this
before it has a chance to grow?

What if I’m the one who ruins
the fragile promise we’re trying to hold?

I wrestle with these fears—
quiet doubts that sneak in when the night is still—
because the risk is real,
and the stakes are my heart.

But even with that fear,
I’m here.
Wanting to try.
Wanting to risk it all
for the chance to be more than just words,
more than passing moments
that drift away with the dawn.

Because to truly know someone—
to be truly known—
is the most daring kind of love there is.

And maybe, just maybe,
we can be brave enough
to hold that together.

Unspoken Loves

Ah, you’re so utterly… cute.
I love you more than I can gather in words—
more than any sentence could hold,
more than the quiet sighs that escape me
when I think of you.

There’s a whole universe inside me
filled with feelings for you—
soft, wild, tender,
and sometimes a little too big for my tongue to carry.

I wish I were better at saying it—
better at weaving my heart into phrases
that could capture even a fraction
of what you mean to me.

Because there are things I want to tell you,
things that float just beyond reach,
words that stumble
and fall silent
before they find their way to you.

If only I could speak them aloud—
all the ways you make me laugh,
all the ways you steady my restless soul,
all the moments when just thinking of you
makes the world feel softer,
safer,
like home.

But for now, I hold those feelings
quietly inside me—
a gentle secret,
a whispered love
that lives between the spaces of spoken language.

And maybe that’s enough—
for this moment,
at least—
to let you know
without saying much at all—
I love you more than words.