Encomium

Dawn of Hope

Do you ever feel it?
That gentle stirring deep inside—
a quiet certainty,
an unshakable whisper
that something great is waiting just beyond the horizon?

Lately, I’ve carried this feeling—
not a wild storm of passion or love,
but a steady glow of hope,
like the soft light before dawn
that promises a new day is coming.

It’s as if the universe is leaning closer,
gently telling me that what I’ve longed for—
the dreams I’ve cradled in secret,
the version of myself I’ve hoped to become—
is about to unfold.

I feel it in my bones—
a knowing that I was made for more
than the moments I’ve lived so far,
more than the doubts I’ve carried,
more than the silence that sometimes surrounds me.

This hope isn’t loud or demanding.
It’s patient.
It’s tender.
It’s the soft promise of growth,
of proving to the world—
and to myself—
that the life I’ve imagined
is waiting just ahead.

And though the path isn’t clear,
and the steps may falter,
I hold this hope close.
A quiet fire,
burning steady beneath the weight of the unknown.

Maybe you feel it too—
that gentle pull toward something better,
something waiting patiently to be claimed.

If so, know this:
we are both on the edge of something new.
And sometimes, that is enough to carry us forward.

Kind of Love That Hurts

It finally happened—
this love we only ever whispered about
when we thought no one was listening.
The kind they write ballads for,
the kind they save for the final scene
in a movie that leaves you breathless.

They always say, "When you know, you know."
And now I understand. Not just the words,
but the weight behind them— the gravity of finding someone
who makes the whole world go quiet just by walking into it.

You didn’t come to me flawless.
You didn’t pretend to be whole.
You came as you were— bruised, burdened,
and carrying a silence deeper than oceans.

And even so— especially so—
you felt like home. You still do.

You never needed to be perfect for me.
Not then, not now.
But oh, how it breaks something in me
to see you ache. To feel helpless
as you drift into the shadows
of your own pain.

I know it’s not my job to fix you.
I know love isn't about stitching someone else back together
with threads of your own soul.
But God— it hurts.

It hurts to watch the person I love
carry so much alone. It hurts to hear the silence
when I ask how you're really doing.
It hurts to smile so you won’t feel guilty
about the tears I’m hiding.

And I know.
I know your healing is yours.
Just like my hurting is mine.
That we cannot save each other—
only stand beside the wreckage
and hope our presence helps soften the fall.

That you’ll slip quietly into some place
I can’t reach. Somewhere I can’t follow.
And all this love I carry will sit, trembling, in an empty room.

But for now—
you’re still here.
Still breathing beside me.
Still trying.
And so I’ll keep loving you
quietly, fiercely,
without asking for anything in return
but your continued presence.

If this is the kind of love that breaks me,
then let it break me.
Let it shape me.
Let it teach me what it means
to love without conditions,
without demands,
without needing to be the reason you heal.

Just— stay.
That’s all I ask. Stay long enough to see yourself
the way I see you.

Unspoken, but Near

It finally happened—
this love we only ever whispered about
when we thought no one was listening.
The kind they write ballads for,
the kind they save for the final scene
in a movie that leaves you breathless.

They always say, "When you know, you know."
And now I understand. Not just the words,
but the weight behind them— the gravity of finding someone
who makes the whole world go quiet just by walking into it.

You didn’t come to me flawless.
You didn’t pretend to be whole.
You came as you were— bruised, burdened,
and carrying a silence deeper than oceans.

And even so— especially so—
you felt like home. You still do.

You never needed to be perfect for me.
Not then, not now.
But oh, how it breaks something in me
to see you ache. To feel helpless
as you drift into the shadows
of your own pain.

I know it’s not my job to fix you.
I know love isn't about stitching someone else back together
with threads of your own soul.
But God— it hurts.

It hurts to watch the person I love
carry so much alone. It hurts to hear the silence
when I ask how you're really doing.
It hurts to smile so you won’t feel guilty
about the tears I’m hiding.

And I know.
I know your healing is yours.
Just like my hurting is mine.
That we cannot save each other—
only stand beside the wreckage
and hope our presence helps soften the fall.

That you’ll slip quietly into some place
I can’t reach. Somewhere I can’t follow.
And all this love I carry will sit, trembling, in an empty room.

But for now—
you’re still here.
Still breathing beside me.
Still trying.
And so I’ll keep loving you
quietly, fiercely,
without asking for anything in return
but your continued presence.

If this is the kind of love that breaks me,
then let it break me.
Let it shape me.
Let it teach me what it means
to love without conditions,
without demands,
without needing to be the reason you heal.

Just— stay.
That’s all I ask. Stay long enough to see yourself
the way I see you.

The Moment I Never Gave You

If only I had spoken when my heart first stirred,

when the feeling was young and trembling on the edge of breath,

you might have turned toward me,

and the space between us might have softened into something

more than passing glances and unclaimed warmth.

But the moment slipped through me—quietly,

like mist curling away from morning light.

And now I carry you, not in my hands,

but in the aching hush of what could have been.

It’s strange, how something so full—so urgent—

could be held back by something as fragile as fear.

I loved you, you know.

Not loudly, not boldly,

but in a way that saturated every silence,

in a way that made your presence feel like the answer

to questions I had long forgotten how to ask.

There was never a right time.

Only a right feeling.

And I felt it—fierce, then gentle,

like waves brushing a shore too shy to rise.

You never knew.

How could you have known?

My heart was a locked room,

and I had swallowed the key.

Now, the air has changed.

The window has closed,

and the moment is a ghost

that visits me when the night is still.

I see your face in soft recollections—

not in dreams, but in the way the moonlight rests

on quiet things:

a folded shirt, an empty seat,

the untouched side of memory

where you once might have stayed.

I do not blame time.

I do not blame you.

But I do mourn the words I never gave—

how they might have bloomed between us

like something sacred,

how they might have lit your eyes differently.

This love didn’t die.

It simply was never born,

left curled in the womb of hesitation.

And perhaps nothing kills quite like that—

not the end of something real,

but the never-beginning of something true.

So I write this not to change anything,

but to place this truth gently into the world,

like a lantern onto a river:

drifting, glowing,

seen by no one—

but honest, still.

And if you ever feel the wind

pause for just a breath longer than usual,

if a silence ever wraps around you

like something familiar,

that’s me.

That’s all I had to give.

And it is yours, even now.

All I Ever Wanted Was Your Heart

My heart—

it no longer beats with the quiet solitude it once knew.

It stirs like a wild thing

restless beneath ribs too fragile to contain the weight

of something this tender, this vast.

It does not belong solely to me anymore.

I gave it away without ceremony,

without even meaning to—

just a glance, a silence,

the way your voice settled into the stillest part of me.

And now it lives elsewhere,

in you,

whether you wanted it or not.

If I could, I would place it in your hands—

gently, without trembling—

not to ask,

not to beg,

but simply to offer.

I would wish for nothing in return.

No grand confessions,

no dazzling gestures.

Only this:

to know that you love me too.

That in the quiet of your own chest,

your heart once whispered my name

the way mine speaks yours

even in sleep.

There is no price for something sacred.

No bargain for what blooms in the soul's hidden garden.

What I feel for you

has never needed proof—

only presence.

Only the unspoken thread

that hums between us

when our eyes meet for a moment too long

and look away

as if nothing had happened—

when everything had.

I do not want the world,

only a piece of yours

the part you’ve never given

because no one ever stayed long enough

to be worthy.

But I would.

I would sit beside your silence

and learn its language.

I would walk with your sorrow

and carry its weight gently in my palms.

I do not ask for all of you.

Only the part that believes

you could be loved softly,

completely,

without question.

Only the part that might one day

turn to me without armor,

and finally say,

“I feel it too.”

That would be enough.

That would be everything.

And even if that day never comes,

know that this love—

quiet as snowfall,

constant as breath—

was real.

It lived.

It asked for nothing

but the chance

to be returned.

A Candle on the Sill

I’ve unfastened the ties that once held me breathless,

set myself free from the weight I used to carry so gently—

a name, a moment, a silent almost.

Yes, I am certain of it now:

I walk lighter,

I breathe deeper.

But even freedom has its quiet shadows.

And when the day folds into dusk,

when the sky softens into pale indigo,

it is still your memory

that brushes against the edges of my thoughts

like a breeze that knows its way home.

I write—not to hold on,

but to breathe.

There is solace in shaping the silence you left behind

into words that listen back.

There is comfort in saying the unsayable

even when you are not here to hear it.

No sentence could ever fully hold you.

No metaphor could contain

the strange, beautiful way you disrupted my knowing.

You were not perfect—

and yet you carried

a greatness made of honesty,

a rare and unpolished grace

that still shifts the way I see the world.

What you did was simple—

you looked at me like I mattered.

And somehow, in that fleeting pause between two lives,

you offered a glimpse

of something I thought was long gone:

hope without conditions.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

That one encounter,

barely a heartbeat

in the long span of time,

could leave this quiet,

this ache that does not wound,

but waits.

And still—

though I no longer call to you in longing,

though I’ve learned to sleep without your name in my mouth—

I find myself sending silent prayers

into the folds of the night.

Wherever you are,

I hope you feel the warmth

of someone wishing you well

without asking anything in return.

That you are safe.

That you are loved,

without needing to earn it.

That happiness finds you

in ways words never could.

I don't know where you’ve gone,

or who holds the pieces of you now,

but some part of me

still lights a candle in your name

and places it on the windowsill of my soul.

Not to summon you,

but to honor

the brief and sacred way

you changed everything

without even meaning to.

Unseen Adoration

Whenever the weight finds you,

and you feel alone beneath it—

whenever the light flickers low,

and the silence becomes too loud,

I hope you remember

you are not unloved.

Not now.

Not ever.

There exists a heart

you’ve never thought to hold—

a simple, slightly foolish one, perhaps,

with a tendency to overthink and overwish,

but it beats

with a softness that only ever wanted

your joy

even if it meant

remaining invisible.

Somewhere,

in a moment you’ll never notice,

someone smiled at the thought of you—

not because of what you did,

not because of how you looked,

but because being reminded you exist

made the world feel less hollow.

Yes, this love is unspoken,

not for fear of being unloved in return,

but for knowing—

knowing too well—

that even a whisper

might shift the balance

you never asked to be disturbed.

You want to choose

who holds your name tenderly,

and that’s a truth I honor,

quietly.

You want to hold the reins

of who enters your world,

and I…

I would never knock.

I only leave this truth here,

like a wildflower pressed between pages:

you are adored,

in a hidden and harmless way,

like a prayer whispered

not for answers,

but for comfort.

There is nothing I ask from you.

Nothing I expect.

Only that

when the doubt creeps in

and the mirrors lie,

you might remember—

somewhere,

someone smiles at the memory

of your laugh,

your eyes,

the particular way your silence holds meaning.

You are loved,

even if not by the one you hoped,

even if not in the way

you would accept.

And that love—

however quiet,

however foolish,

however unseen—

has never once tried to change you.

Only watched,

only wondered,

only wished,

gently,

as the moon wishes on the tide,

never expecting the waves

to stay.

Beautiful Interruption

You arrive in my mind

like a hush filled with stars—

not loud,

but impossible to ignore.

I imagine you as light,

a swirling kind—

playful, golden,

uncontainable.

You dance there,

in the softest corners of my thinking,

until my thoughts are no longer my own,

until your presence spills out of me

like morning through a half-open window.

And suddenly,

everything is lovelier.

The world turns its face toward me

with colors I hadn’t noticed before.

Edges soften.

Shadows shimmer.

Even silence feels like it’s listening.

You do that.

Not with effort.

Not even with knowledge.

But with the quiet fact of your being.

With the way your memory

brightens the dim places in me.

It’s not obsession—

it’s something gentler.

Like warmth that finds you

when you didn’t know you were cold.

Like music heard faintly

from a distance,

and somehow

you hum along

without knowing the tune.

You don’t need to be near

for this feeling to bloom.

You don’t need to speak

for my thoughts to become

louder with you in them.

You live there now—

not heavily,

but light as breath.

A flicker, a pulse,

a beautiful interruption

to everything ordinary.

And I love this.

Not just the brightness,

but the way it reminds me

I can still feel deeply—

unexpectedly,

fully,

without needing anything in return.

I love this feeling

because it makes the world

feel alive again.

Because somehow,

without knowing,

you’ve made my thoughts

a softer place to be.

And if you never know,

if these words never reach you,

still—

they carry your name in every sigh.

Still—

they glow,

because of you.

The Four Collisions

One.

You noticed me.

And your voice—

it cut through the noise in the softest way,

like a song I didn’t realize I’d been waiting for.

It’s strange,

how someone like you

—so composed, so quietly golden—

would turn their gaze toward me.

You learned my name.

Easily.

As though it belonged in your mouth

all along.

And then suddenly,

things made more sense

in ways I didn’t know they could.

“Beautiful,” you might’ve said.

Or “attractive.”

Words I’d never believed belonged to me

until they were in your air.

Two.

You are a gem.

A light cupped gently in the palm of life.

Bright, but never blinding.

Full of kindness

in the quietest corners of your heart.

You’re joy stitched into form.

“Too cute,” you once said—

and I’m not sure if it was a tease

or a truth you didn’t know how to hold.

You still make me bashful,

like a schoolchild

learning how to speak in front of the class,

stumbling over reverence

they’re too young to name.

Would you still say hello?

Still want to talk,

if the world paused

just for us?

Three.

You are different.

Set apart.

You carry the hush of something sacred,

and it shows—

in the way you walk into a room

and don’t even notice

how everything leans toward your light.

There’s humor tucked beneath your gentleness,

I can tell—

a mischief that waits for the right person

to coax it out.

Your voice

has this sweetness to it,

laced with nerves

that only make it more human.

More tender.

It takes courage to speak the way you do—

shaky but steady,

like faith learning to walk.

Your eyes sparkle.

That’s not an exaggeration.

It’s just the truth

draped in moonlight.

I used to count the days I’d see you.

Like little stars on a calendar,

each one a flicker of maybe.

But I lost track—

not because I stopped caring,

but because your presence

folded itself into the rhythm of my life

so gently

I forgot it was ever new.

Only four.

And yet—

you’ve rearranged something in me

that I’m still trying to name.

Now the days pass,

and I keep wondering

why it unfolded like this.

Why we collided so briefly

and so brightly,

only to drift again

like ships that blink across each other’s path

once

and then never again.

It’s not sadness I feel,

not quite.

It’s something softer,

a wistful ache wrapped in gratitude.

I don’t know what to do with it,

so I write.

I write because it’s the only way

to keep the light you brought

from dimming.

I write

because I don’t know if you ever think of me.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe this is all it was meant to be—

a spark.

A sigh.

A short story

that glowed quietly

before fading into the night.

But oh,

what a beautiful flicker it was.

The Gentle Stirring

You may never read this—

and somehow,

that makes these words feel more sacred.

Like a prayer whispered into a night

that won’t speak back, but holds the sound gently,

nonetheless.

Still, I want to thank you.

Not loudly.

Not with spectacle.

Just with this soft offering of truth.

You reminded me of the sweet things,

the delicate joys that once lived quietly

beneath all the noise.

For the longest time,

I forgot how light it feels

when your heart skips for no reason at all—

how it trembles when someone’s presence

feels like sunlight dripping through the leaves.

But then you came, unaware,

with nothing in your hands

except the gift of simply being.

And somehow, without trying,

you stirred the butterflies back to life.

The ones I thought had long flown away.

It may sound silly—

how a few moments,

a few glances, a few words

could shift something so deeply buried.

But not all truths need to be loud

to be real. Not all beauty announces itself.

You were like that.

Not dazzling— but glowing,

gently, in the way that only the genuine do.

The kind of light that doesn’t seek to be seen,

yet still warms everything it touches.

You are, without question,

a gem.

Not because you tried to be.

But because you simply are.

And though we were brief— a flicker in the long timeline of things—

you left something soft behind.

A sweetness I now carry, quietly,

like a note folded in my pocket

for the days that feel heavy.

So thank you, for reminding me

And some people, like you,

are the reason it returns.

“Not all moments are meant to last,

but some are meant to leave you better.”

an opening in the universe

once, a blonde, sandy head entered my view,

with eyes of clear skies, shiny drops of dew,

a laugh of windchimes and stars, ringing true,

a smile of cherry cola, sweet and new.

transfixed, i gazed, entranced and enchanted,

at the misty sunlight, almost dancing

around her, as seeds were firmly planted,

at the sight of a nymph prancing.

but suddenly, i was back in English,

and she was looking at me, the angel,

her soft dimples framing her face, sheepish,

as she reached for a pen, somehow graceful,

while i stuttered out a yes, mumbling,

and cupid groaned, my own heart stumbling.

Love Beyond Fairy Tales

The thing is—

no one really knows

who “the one” is. That title,

so heavy with dream and desire,

slips too easily

through the hands

of even the kindest hearts.

You may feel

you’ve found it. And I won’t argue—

maybe you have. But love

isn’t only found in the beauty

of a beginning.

It’s shaped in the quiet,

the tired, the difficult.

It’s not just in falling—

it’s in staying. Choosing.

Again and again,

even when the glow

has dimmed into shadows

and the music of certainty

turns to static.

People change. The world shifts.

Even the softest affection

can lose its footing on days

when silence grows too wide

between two souls.

Sometimes,

the smallest misstep,

the simplest absence—

a single day of not speaking—

can become a door for someone else

to enter through. It’s not betrayal,

not always. Just the quiet unraveling

of what once held firm.

But love—

true love— is not found in perfection.

It does not ask for flawlessness,

only presence.

Only patience.

Only the steady

return

to one another

when the world feels too loud

or too far.

I don’t wish for you a fairytale.

I don’t hope for someone

who will dazzle you

and never stumble.

I hope you find someone

as human as you—

someone who gets it wrong sometimes

and loves you anyway.

Someone who listens

when you don’t know how to speak.

Who chooses you

even when it’s inconvenient.

Especially then.

Not someone who promises forever

without knowing what it costs—

but someone who chooses each moment

like a vow.

I hope you feel that one day. And if you already do—

I hope it lasts.

And quietly, beneath all my words,

know this:

You deserve that kind of love.

The kind that stays.

Even when the stars forget to shine.

Even when you’re not sure you’re worth it.

Especially then.

—

“The right love won’t need you to be perfect—just willing.”