Love me gently, hold me near,

If you leave, don't disappear.

I count the hours until I start to mourn,

Afraid you'll forget me before you're home.

Love is cruel to hearts like mine,

They bloom for one, then intertwine.

So if I fade, or lose my light,

Remember to hold me just as tight.

For I was never made to bloom,

In gardens where love leaves too soon.

If one day my voice grows still,

Promise me you'll hear it still.

In every room, through every door,

As if I'd never left before.

And if the moths ask for me,

Say I was yours, and let that be.

They shall carry my remains exactly to your soul,

For each night you will fall deeper into mourn.

Grief shall be what love once knew,

A cigarette's role has always been to deliver nicotine into the lungs of the one smoking it, providing a quick, momentarily stimulating, and often calming psychological effect.

Addiction.

And I see us in it.

A cigarette that keeps getting relit before it can finally die out. Exhausted, used repeatedly. Never allowed to rest.

That is how I ought to say I feel.

Self destruction is the only way I work for the both of us now.

You kept lighting me again as if burning slower meant living longer.

You keep me in your fingers like a file that never closes. Gently. Almost fearing to destroy my fragile body with your fingers, since you would rather do it with your lips. Smoking me until you are out of breath, and I'm out of giving you anymore of myself, because I'm absorbed fully by your greed.

You are so cruel, and I fell in love with it.

Then again. And again. As if repetition is mercy. You inhale me like evidence, then exhale me like I was never anything but air with a mistake inside it.

And when I start to become nothing finally, properly nothing, your hand returns, precise, impatient, and drags me back into existence.

Sucking the last gasp out of me, all for your own desires. You consume me so you could feel complete. My smoke filling your lungs as you inhaling me gives you comfort, but then I become smaller and smaller.

And do you ever even notice?

You do. But only when I'm already gone, and you need to reach for another one of me.

When it's too late.

We both are trapped in a toxic cycle with precision, that neither of us would leave.

It is incredibly draining to feel like I only exist to be used up, piece by piece, for the sole purpose of soothing you.

While the intimacy of that connection feels worth the pain right now, carrying the burden of mutual destruction is an exhausting way to live.

So over time I have learned your rhythm.

It is not love.

It is scheduling.

You became so exact, my body aches before you even reach for me. I know exactly what comes next.

Burn. Pause. Relight.

Burn. Pause. Relight.

A loop so clean it forgets it is violence.

Then you say I am needed.

But I have begun to suspect, I am only not allowed to end. Even my dying is supervised by you.

I try to fall apart in peace, but you keep correcting the ending, rewriting it your way, as if a cigarette is not allowed to have its own disappearance unless you authorize it.

And I am tired in a way smoke cannot explain. Tired of being halfway gone. Tired of being returned to myself.

Tired of burning into ashes in front of you.

For you.

But I still let you smoke me, because it's worth feeling my delicate body between your lips.

Even if it's the last thing I might feel.

A woman was once cast out, sentenced to die in a forest people used to call deadly.

They told her, witches belong there.

But there was a man in village who fell madly in love with her. Every night, he would sneak out, take a walk on the same path that brought him to her. He would bring her food and company. They would hold hands and he would tell her how much he craves her then make love in the woods, giving in their all, knowing no one could hear, or see what belongs to them.

Every night, she would stand there, next to the same tree they made love under, holding a lit candle to help him find his way. Waiting for him to return impatiently. Knowing he keeps her alive, both inside and out.

But this one night, a terrible storm broke out. Caught him out in the open, and it blew out the candle the woman was holding.

Even in darkness, the man would not give up. He would not turn back. So he fought against the raging wind.

But the villagers found him sooner than he found her.

Now, aware of the affair they have been sharing for weeks. He was sentenced to death.

He cried, and not because he was afraid. But because he knew he wouldn't be able to there for her once they take his life.

The woman never lost hope. She kept coming out at night, kept lighting the same candle, to bring her beloved home, to her.

But all for nothing at all.

The candle has gotten smaller and smaller in size as days passed, until nothing was left out of it.

She became one with the roots of the tree they made love under. So close to him, yet fully apart.

She starved waiting for him.

He died rushing to her.

I would rather argue with u everyday, than look into another's eyes the way i look into yours.

I would rather lose sleep to the weight of my thoughts, than sleep soundly beside someone who does not know my name the way you do.

I would rather wait in uncertainty than be given certainty by hands that are not yours.

I would rather ache for your attention, than be adored effortlessly by someone I do not love.

I would rather hear your silence, than listen to another voice tell me everything I long to hear.

I would rather be misunderstood by you, than understood perfectly by anyone else.

I would rather carry the fear of losing you, than feel nothing at all.

I would rather be a wound in your memory, than a comfort in someone else's head.

I would rather be a passing thought in your mind, than the center of another person's world.

I would rather spend my life longing for what may never be guaranteed with you, than accept a love that asks me to forget you.

I would rather dissolve into the background of your days than stand brightly in the life of someone I do not crave.

I would rather be the reason your heart hesitates, than the reason another heart feels at ease.

I would rather dispute with you every night before sleep, than live in perfect peace with someone else.

I would rather spend my entire life loving you from a distance, than touch someone whose presence leaves me untouched.

I would rather be yours in secret, than belong openly to anyone else.

I would rather be destroyed by the possibility of losing you, than survive without ever having known you.

I would rather cease to exist, than live in a world where your eyes no longer search for mine.

I would rather haunt your thoughts than disappear from them.

You would think that the rock you once threw into the river as a joke would end up fine.

It would stay there.

It is too heavy for the current, so it would not be carried away.

But would that really be better?

Think about how that poor stone must feel with each passing stream against its back. Moss will gather on it, causing it to sink deeper and deeper into the mud at the bottom of the river.

Further and further, until you can no longer see it when you pass by.

Slowly, it will dissolve.

It will be scraped away by the cruel and relentless current that knows only one direction.

It will become sand.

It will become nothing.

So why did you throw it?

Didn't you know it was on solid ground for a reason?

Maybe it hated the idea of getting wet, and perhaps it had a good reason for that.

My white porcelain plate's only purpose has always been to hold the food one serves on it.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

But they put more weight on its fragile silhouette by starting to cut the served food on it.

It wasn't ready for that.

It wasn't made to endure that.

How didn't they know?

They seem to forget that it is made of an easily breakable material at the end of the day, so it must be treated as such. Yet, without a second thought, they pick out the sharpest knife from the kitchen drawer to slice through the food that is served on my plate, not realizing for a second that it will leave a permanent mark on it.

The plate doesn't break, not yet.

It does resist, but everything shall come to an end.

Shall it not?

So then, when food is served one day, they will notice tiny chips of my plate every time they carelessly cut on it. Chips of my plate that they cannot see, only feel when they bite down hard on them while chewing their food.

The irony is that they only realize their gums could end up bleeding when they actually already are.

Always when it's too late.

My plate tried to warn them.

No matter how white and pure it is, it will not hold well if they put more weight on it than it can handle.

But this should be normal for them to understand.

So why won't they?

It wasn't made for them to cut their food on it.

It was for the simple purpose of serving food from it.

And just like that, that white porcelain plate they have owned is stuffed with things it isn't quite responsible for, yet is forced to do.

I will selfishly take it back from those inconsiderate hands of theirs.

Someone has to.

And so...

That is officially the meanest thing he has ever told me.

Such a simple, innocent-looking sentence that some would even consider a compliment.

It is not.

It is, rather, an awakening to the fact that he observes other women.

The exact shade of their hair.

It is a silent comparison between them and me. All the dark red-haired girls who may look a little like me get to be compared.

I do not feel special anymore.

In other words, he told me he would like me to look like them, to remind him of them.

Because he likes the view.

He likes them.

Hair is part of a woman's personality.

So why would he ever say that to me?

Why would he ever want to change that in me?

Why does he even think that another personality would suit me?

He is so ungrateful.

Or maybe I am just not enough.

Either way, anger is too small a word to describe my reaction.

I wish I had the heart to make him feel what I felt in the second he told me this.

But I don't.

I couldn't.

I'm not like that.

I love his hair the way it is, and nothing would ever suit him better than what he chose to have.

He has always been more of a concep than a person. A muse for the art that is given life to, by artists.

The artists learned him.

Experienced him.

But not the way he should have been.

They made him look like a painting that needed a touch up. One you would look at and wonder why the artist hasn't colored with warmer tones, why did that artist use charcoal black, when he should have been painted all in white.

White has always been his color.

How couldn't that artist know?

It almost feels like they have tried to mess up the painting, forgetting that under it, it will be their names signed, and all of the people staring at the unappealing painting will know exactly who messed it up.

I think they didn't feel shame.

They messed him up purposely, not caring about how they would be viewed for it afterwards.

Being concerned only about how messy their artwork would look. As and act of revenge, almost.

But they forgot that whoever tries to paint with coal, will have their paint brush stained first.

Eventually, in trying to darken him, they only revealed themselves to the crowd.

Even I can see now, why he looks like he could cry to get fixed.

Let's hope that it will be different for our little muse now.

It is beautifully tragic how two things that were never meant to understand each other, are now in love. Or at least they were, for a little time.

Once upon a time, when the rain suddenly enveloped the sky and the fog blinded every living being, making them rely only on their smelling instincts to find their way to a refuge. Of course, only if they didn't own one. A small sand cat got lost midst its journey. Unfortunatly it was compelled to have its eyes closed and pressured to run from the dampness created by the continous rain.

It hated it. The sand cat despised the deluge with all of it's soul every time when it appeared in the middle of voyage. A never ending one, that was making the cats limbs weaken from all the walking. But it wasn't the first time it has happened, yet something about that specific time felt different.

It felt new, unfamiliar.

Far from home.

It knew it had to rest but it didn't know where, didn't see where, it didn't feel where. It was wilderness for it.

The scent of rain got heavier, almost like a whole environment was damp in it, like a forest. Its paws sank into wet soil. The smell of rot and bark suffocated it. Every tree looked diseased but it would not know, not yet. Swollen with moisture, bending under the burden of existing. The sand cat thought this grove was cruel in a completely different way than the desert.

The desert killed one honestly, dehydratin it's victim.

The woods watched, drowning their prey.

When its legs gave in, its body finally collapsed beneath a black stone, the rain abruptly softened. And there, hidden in the cracks of the rock, was moss. Small. Quiet. Almost pathetic. The cat stared at it with dull eyes which turned into dilated pupils. It was such a fragile thing. It could not travel. Could not hunt. Could not even defend itself against a careless footstep. It merely existed where the world permitted it to. Damp, silent, clinging desperately to stone as though afraid of being washed away.

It was nothing like a sand cat. The cat pitied it immediately.

For a long while neither moved. The rainwater slid down the cat's fur and gathered near the moss. The moss absorbed it greedily, brightening in color little by little, as if returning from death. The cat noticed this and, for reasons it did not understand. Yet it remained still despite the slight discomfort.

The moss needed the water.

And the cat... the cat needed a place to stay.

A place where it's eyes could be open without the fog disturbing, where it would be safe.

So night after night it returned to the same spot which was theirs now. At first it told itself it was merely resting there until the rain stopped. Yet the rains came often in that cursed forest, and every storm drove the animal back beneath the same stone, beside the same patch of living green.

Eventually, the cat began carrying water in its fur intentionally. It would stand beneath the rain until its coat became heavy, then curl itself around the moss so the droplets would seep slowly into it.

The moss never thanked it.

Never spoke.

Never even changed beyond growing softer and greener beneath the animal's exhausted body. Still, the cat loved it. Perhaps because the moss demanded nothing. The desert had demanded survival. Hunger demanded violence. The world demanded direction, purpose, endurance. But the moss simply existed beside it in complete silence, and for the first time in its life, the cat did not feel like a failure for being tired.

Days became impossible to count. The cat stopped wandering far from the stone. Its claws dulled. Its once pale fur remained permanently damp. Sometimes it coughed violently at night, curling tighter around the moss so it would not see. Its ribs emerged sharply beneath wet fur. Its breathing turned shallow. Yet every morning, before its body could fully wake, it checked the moss first.

Still alive.

Good.

That was enough.

One night the rain never came. The air was dry for the first time in months. The moss began shriveling almost immediately. The cat stared at it in horror. It searched the forest until dawn for water, but the streams were thin ice and the earth hard as stone. There wasn't even moisture left. By the time it returned, its legs gave out beneath it. The moss had curled into itself. Dying.

The cat pressed its face against it weakly. Purring as in to wake it up with the soft sound it made out of the pure love it had for it.

"I'm here," it whispered. It was all it had left to offer.

Then, after a very long silence, the cat understood something with unbearable clarity. The moss had survived by consuming the water that slowly destroyed the creature bringing it. And the cat had gladly allowed it.

Because to finally be needed, even fatally, felt gentler than being alone.

The animal let out a shaky breath then, when realization hit. It was the last sound it ever made.

Outside, the fog thickened until the world disappeared entirely.

By morning, the moss has completely dried out. Beneath it, unmoving, lay the sand cat. It's breathing became one with it's beloved moss, inexistent.

Now, the tragedy of the sand cat and the moss lives on.

Not literally no.

He told me, once, that he likes foxes.

Not in the way children like animals they have only seen in picture books, softened into harmless things with oversized eyes and predictable tempers.

He likes them as they are.

He likes foxes, and that told me more about him than he intended. Because foxes are not easy creatures to love.

They are beautiful in a way that keeps its distance. Their coats look too immaculate for the lives they lead, as though elegance and survival were never meant to coexist, and yet in them they do. Their fur wasn't made for us to touch, they aren't dogs. They move like they are apologizing to no one. Quietly. Deliberately. As if every step has already considered the consequences. They are careful.

But foxes have to kill in order to live.

And somehow, they remain gentle to look at. There is something deeply honest about that.

A fox does not pretend to be harmless. It does not flatten itself into something easier to approach. Some will let your hand come close. Some will bare their teeth before you touch them. Some bite. Some only watch from the edge of the trees, deciding whether your presence deserves their curiosity. They are prudent.

To love a fox is to accept uncertainty as part of its nature.

It means understanding that beauty does not guarantee softness, and that caution is not rejection. It means recognizing that affection can exist inside an animal that still belongs, irrevocably, to the wild.

And I think that is why he loves them.

Because he understands that tenderness is not the absence of instinct.

That something can be wary and still worthy of devotion.

That moods shift.

That silence does not always mean distance.

That a creature can flinch, hiss, retreat, and still choose to return.

He does not ask the fox to be less itself.

He simply waits until it comes closer on its own. He gives it time.

And perhaps that is what I love most about him.

Not that he likes foxes.

But that he knows how to stand beside something untamed without needing to tame it.

How to admire what could hurt him and call it beautiful anyway.

How to offer his hand without insisting it be taken.

If I were a fox, I would be one haunting his footsteps.

Suspicious. Restless. Half-hidden.

And eventually, despite every instinct telling me to keep my distance, I would lie down beside him.

Because some people do not mistake caution for cruelty.

Some people understand that wild things love differently.

And he likes foxes.

It's like we have turned into animals, we suddenly couldn't recognize eqchoder anymore.

Humanity is just a thin mask. With a hint of immersion we all can see through it and reveal the raw and feral instincts hiding beneath the surface of us.

Usually, animals recognize their own immediately by scent or sound. They don't look in each other's eyes recalling the intimacy they could have potentially shared.

They aren't us.

We not only notice just the loss of speech, but a loss of connection aswell.

The quiet nights that turn simple thoughts into overthinking.

The cold sheets which once had a dent in them due to the comforting weight of our loved one pressing onto it.

I smell his fear sooner than he gets to feel it. It's not a power of mine it's just my body knowing his. My subconscious inhaling his entire being as he never had to speak for me to nod.

Predatory awareness is one of the few ways to describe how prudent I'am with him. It is also the closest thing to what dominates my emotions.

Vigilance.

I feel every move of his inside me, every thought, every twitch. And it's making me beyond submissive.

Moldable.

He feels like a feather. A perfect one that hasn't fallen due to its dullness. He is one ripped forcefully out of the feathering of an unfortunate bird, by no one else, but a beauty hungry little girl who craves to feel everything gorgeous in her hands.

And she would hurt the bird again. Only to feel him against the soft skin of her gripping mitt.

She would tear anything that reminds her of him, from an innocent flower to a blade of grass that might not look like much. But she sees him in it, so it becomes hers suddenly.

She notices how truly worthy it is to have him all to herself. She won't let go.