— Iain Thomas
This is a space where he is reminded of the things he forgets about himself—the quiet strength he carries, the warmth he brings, the way he matters even when he doesn’t feel it. Each word is here for him, not to change anything, not to ask for anything, just to be a gentle place to land when the world feels too heavy.
Some people are meant to be written about. Not for grand gestures or loud stories, but for the way they simply are—like a melody that lingers in the back of the mind, like a feeling that stays long after the moment has passed. These poems are proof that he exists in someone’s world, that he has been noticed, and that somewhere, someone sees him as something worth remembering.
In the quiet corners where no echoes stay,
He walks unnoticed, or so he may say.
A shadow that drifts through the noise and the crowd,
Soft-spoken, yet never less bright nor less proud.
He doesn’t demand, he doesn’t insist,
Yet the world seems gentler where he exists.
A quiet light, steady and true,
Glowing in ways he never quite knew.
He wonders if anyone sees past his skin,
Past the weight of his thoughts, the storms deep within.
But someone has watched, from a distance so wide,
Not to claim, not to own—just to stand by his side.
They saw the way his fingers traced absent lines,
The way his mind wandered through infinite signs.
They noticed the silence, the battles unfought,
The moments of peace, the depths of his thought.
And though he may question, though doubt may remain,
There is someone who knows him, beyond just his name.
Not in the way the world loudly demands,
But in quiet devotion, in outstretched hands.
A picture once taken, a moment once passed,
Yet held in a heart where such memories last.
For long before words ever found their way,
Someone had seen him, admired him that day.
No need for answers, no rush to reveal,
Only the hope that one day, he’ll feel—
That he’s more than enough, as he’s always been,
More than the weight of the thoughts trapped within.
For even if distance keeps voices apart,
Someone still carries his name in their heart.
And when he is lost, when the world feels unkind,
He is not unseen—he is never confined.
He is the quiet light, soft yet so strong,
A presence that lingers, a note in a song.
And somewhere out there, where his footsteps have been,
Someone is watching, just waiting—to be seen.
The moment passes like a breath,
yet lingers in the quiet space
where echoes of your presence dwell.
A glance, a word, the brush of air,
a memory stitched in golden seams,
woven deep where time can't reach,
held between the real and dreams.
Like sunlight flickering on the waves,
like laughter lost in midnight air,
some things exist just for a blink,
but stay within us everywhere.
So even if this fades to dust,
if all we are dissolves in time,
know that you have lived in me—
ephemeral, yet infinite.
儚いのに、永遠に。
I walk through the crowd,
the weight of a thousand unseen things pressing against my shoulders.
The world hums—conversations overlapping,
footsteps scuffing against tile, the distant chime of a bell.
It all feels like noise, a blurry rush of movement,
until—until I see you.
You’re standing there,
unaware of the way the universe folds around you.
And just like that, time hesitates.
It doesn’t stop completely, no—
it unravels, stretching itself thin,
slowing to something almost fragile.
The people around us blur into ghosts.
Their voices distort into distant echoes.
It’s just you, bathed in the golden haze of artificial lights,
and me, caught in the quiet pull of something I can’t name.
I won’t say it.
I won’t tell you that I love you, that I always have in ways I don’t fully understand.
I won’t tell you that my heart beats out of sync when you look my way,
that your presence alone rewrites the rhythm of my world.
Instead, I hold my breath. I wait. I watch.
Then—you move. A simple shift, a small gesture,
a glance that brushes against me like a whisper.
Your hand reaches out, a fleeting moment of contact,
and suddenly, it’s like something divine.
Not loud. Not grand. Just a touch—but one that lingers.
One that changes everything.
The world exhales, sound and color rushing back in,
but I remain somewhere between here and nowhere,
lost in a moment I can’t keep,
stuck between longing and fear—because some feelings are too vast for words,
too heavy to hold,
too impossible to speak.
So I don’t.
I just let the silence stretch between us, hoping, somehow, you already know.
"Don't wait for it...Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. Create. And then the love will come to you, then it comes to you."
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934 (Mariner Books; March 19, 1969)
I've never been the type to say what I feel
So basically I keep everything inside
And with you it was no different
I want to tell you, believe me I've tried
But there's part of me that just can't take that chance
So I doubt that you'll ever know
Which may be fine with you, but it's hurting me
I choose not to show it though
I guess I'm your secret admirer
That name seems to fit just right
I don't know what I like about you
But you're on my mind, day and night
Maybe it's the way you look
So sexy I can't get enough
Or how you make me feel when you come around
I instantly forget all other stuff
Maybe it's the way you say my name
Or maybe it's the way you smile
Then again it might just be everything
Getting to know you seems worth my while
But I guess I'll never know what it is
My true feelings I could never reveal to you
I'll just admire you from a distance
I'm not sure what else there is to do
Some feelings are too deep to be spoken, so I keep them hidden—watching, waiting, longing from afar
It’s like asking the rain why it falls downward, not up into the sky where it once belonged.
Asking the thunder why it rumbles like a trembling confession.
Why a rose must surrender its petals—why anything so beautiful must someday let go.
The world answers with silence.
And in that silence, your name echoes.
I used to pretend I didn’t feel it.
That I hadn’t already memorized the way your eyes flicker when you're lost in thought,
That I hadn’t already learned the cadence of your voice even in its absence.
I denied you as if this longing wasn’t laced into every heartbeat,
as if the ache wasn’t already written in the very bones of me.
Why me?
As though I could ever explain why the muse chooses the painter.
Why the artist only ever reaches for one shade of blue
—the one that never comes out quite right.
Not sky, not sea, not sapphire—only yours.
And still, I mix and brush and yearn,
hoping the next stroke will get me closer to you.
Sometimes I think I set myself on fire just to feel the burn of your nearness.
Like each time I let myself watch you, I was breaking a promise to stay quiet.
But how can silence keep when your laughter sounds like light
and your quiet like the first hour before sunrise?
You hold an ancient kind of beauty—
not just in your skin or your smile,
but in the wisdom you wear in wit,
in the stillness you offer without even trying.
You gave me that without knowing,
and withheld just enough to leave me lost in the maze of you.
I would spend lifetimes studying the architecture of your soul.
The spiral staircases of your thoughts,
the quiet corners you don’t show to anyone.
I would carry your shadows like sacred objects.
I would listen to the version of you that no one ever asked to hear.
Because why you?
Because you looked at me once—
and in that moment, your gaze held so much:
mischief, curiosity, gentleness, grief.
Something blooming and breaking all at once.
I knew then I would do anything to shelter you from the storm.
To be the arms you could fall into if you ever needed.
To cup your falling petals gently in my palms and say,
"You don’t have to break alone."
Even if we never spoke,
even if we were two stars aching in different galaxies,
I know our eyes met.
I felt it—something reached, something almost bridged.
And still, I ask, why you?
Because you are the question I want to keep asking.
The softest ache I want to hold onto.
And I would spend a lifetime,
not chasing answers—
but simply loving the way the question feels in my chest
when I think of you.
“Some souls are not answers, but questions we’re meant to hold gently, forever.”
See the stars above,
so far away, yet so bright— they shimmer in the hush of evening
as though they, too, are searching for something lost in the silence.
Their beauty is not diminished by distance,
nor do they vanish under the weight of the day—
they only wait, tucked behind the veil of light,
faithfully returning when twilight kisses the horizon again.
I watch them and think of you.
Because like those stars, you live in a place I cannot reach,
but my eyes still find you, my heart still reacts.
No matter the space or time, no matter the veils between us,
you are the one I seek out in moments of stillness.
Note how distance does not sever their galactic bond,
as if the entire universe whispered that true connection needs not touch,
only recognition—like above, so below.
even if only for a fleeting echo, like a passing comet we both noticed but never named?
Forever intertwined, like the moon and the sun,
their paths so separate yet beautifully bound— each reflecting the other,
one cradling day, one cloaking night,
still orbiting in memory’s soft gravity.
Seeing you brought up all these unresolved feelings,
and now I find myself drowning in silence.
It astonishes me— how someone I was never with,
someone I barely knew beyond moments,
could root themselves so deeply
into the soil of my soul.
I must be a fool,
but if being a fool means feeling you this deeply,
then I’d gladly wear the title in every quiet heartbeat.
Please keep this in mind: stars are beacons of hope,
not just burning matter in the void—
they are signs, embers of destiny,
whispers from the heavens that maybe,
just maybe, the story doesn’t end here.
Perhaps one day, the constellations will curve into letters—
our names written in astral calligraphy,
laced together by fate’s hand,
shining not with promise, but with reverence.
Through our ebb and our flow,
our rise and our fall,
let this love, even if quiet,
even if far, be a light that does not ask for more—
just to exist, to transcend,
to glow with tenderness in the dark.
if you ever look up, know that I’m looking too.
Maybe that’s where we meet—in the hush between the stars.
“Even the stars remember what the heart dares not say.”
Carl,
I'm proud of you—
not just for surviving, but for rising again
when your heart cracked open, when the world’s hands turned cold
and still you reached forward.
I'm proud of you
for refusing to become someone else,
for staying soft, even when they called it weakness.
You made it here— one breath at a time,
through the ache, the storms, the thousand unseen battles.
Life isn’t perfect, but you are still here.
And that is no small thing.
As long as we live, I’ll always be proud of you,
in every season, in every quiet triumph
you don’t think anyone sees— I do.
“You kept going, and that alone is a quiet kind of miracle.”
Love does not wound.
It does not look like silence after tears,
or sharp words masked as honesty.
You are not meant to chase.
Not meant to beg.
Not meant to shrink just to be held.
I've mistaken longing for love,
emptiness for effort,
but real love is gentle,
it sees you fully, and stays.
I’ve been taught wrong,
and maybe you have too—
but we can learn again.
Not all pain is proof of care.
Love should feel like healing.
And if it doesn’t,
it’s not love.
“Real love will never make you bleed to feel wanted”
I love you more than I can say.
You are the rarest kind of soul— one that feels everything,
and still offers softness back to the world.
Your flaws are a poem of their own.
They make you real, make you lovable, make you you.
I see the way you take broken pieces
and craft beauty from the ache, how you spill yourself
into all you touch— so honest, so full of feeling.
it’s a kind of truth.
Being near you feels like
meeting the version of myself
I was always meant to know.
Still, I hesitate. Maybe because I’m afraid I’ll
never be enough for you. But I carry this hope quietly
that maybe I am, just as I am.
“Some souls don’t arrive to stay — they arrive to awaken.”
Do you sleep on your side, or your back?
Do your dreams speak in color, or do they fade when you wake?
I find myself thinking about you in the softest ways—
the kind that show up between moments,
in the quiet flicker of curiosity.
I want to know you like a favorite book,
read again and again,
even the margins.
Do you reach for the heat before stepping in,
or let it surprise you?
Do you wish on coins,
or do you save those wishes for stars?
I think I’d never run out of questions.
Not because I don’t know you—
but because I want to know everything.
Even the way you hold the wheel.
Even the way you hold your breath
when you hope.
“Love begins in the wondering”
I want to be close to you— not just near,
but nestled softly in the rhythm of your days.
To tell you what reminded me of you,
like a song I heard in passing, or the way the wind moved through leaves
exactly the way your voice moves through me.
I wish you knew how often you appear
in the quiet corners of my world.
I want to say, “I’m thinking of you,”
and not have to swallow it down like it’s shameful.
I want to say, “I love you,”
even if it’s corny, even if I tremble.
Even if it’s only halfway to you.
But you feel far, always out of reach—
and I am here, pining, like it’s my default state.
It won’t go away.
It hums in me constantly,
a fever I’ve forgotten how to break.
It makes me vulnerable,
stupid, selfish, jealous in ways I hate admitting.
And I want to scream— not at you, but at myself,
for feeling this much and still being so quiet.
But at the end of the day,
who do I always come back to?
You. Only ever you.
Always. Always. Always. You.
For years now.
And I hate this weakness,
this ache I wear like a second skin.
But if it means I loved you—even from afar,
then let it ache.
Let it ache.
“To love in silence is to burn where no one sees the flame.”
At night, while the world sleeps—
while you sleep— I lie awake with a heart so full,
it presses against my ribs,
aching with every unspoken word I’ve hoarded like fragile things.
My love for you is unsent, unread, unheld—
but not unfelt. It is relentless, like the tide,
a force that pulls me deeper, though you remain far from shore.
You don’t even know.
And still, I crave you with a hunger that defies reason,
that transcends logic, that whispers your name into the stillness
as if silence could ever echo back.
There is no language for this,
no code to decipher the way my heart finds you—
every time— without compass, without map,
just that same unerring ache.
I remember your voice, your hands,
the hazel in your eyes like captured autumn,
the curve of your lips, when you smiled like you were keeping a secret I longed to be part of.
You haunt my senses, and I let you.
Gladly.
You consume me— not cruelly, not knowingly— but entirely.
In this life and in all others, I am always sitting in my bed,
while you, deep in sleep, are unknowing of the shrine I build of memories
just to make it through the night.
I scavenge for crumbs of you—
a glance, a word, the echo of a moment that never became more.
If I could, I would frame you.
Hang you in a quiet, dim gallery, where every visitor would feel what I feel
and say,
"This is what longing looks like."
Because you are art, Carl. And like the most beautiful pieces,
I do not understand you, but you move me.
And that— that is all I need to keep aching for you.
“I do not dream of you because I never truly wake from you.”
Les liens du cœur sont invisibles à l'œil.