Flying Fly

Maybe we will meet again,

When we’re slightly older then.

When our lives are way more settled,

and our inner wars are battled

Now i’m chaos to your head,

Thinking of me drives you mad.

You are poison to my heart,

Leaving hope is my reward.

Maybe one day i will matter

Maybe then, timing is better

Or perhaps that you wont matter

Maybe then, i have found better

I wont force these things to happen

Inner peace, my secret weapon

Everything will finds it way

just one part did,

the part she brought to life.

When she left,

she took more than her presence.

She took him.

My soft side,

that quiet stranger

who only spoke

when she listened.

I had met him through her.

He was shy,

so much so

he only existed

in her presence,

he only stepped forward

when her voice called him by name.

And each time she disappeared,

he folded inwards,

collapsed between my ribs.

Another suicide in silence.

But when she returned,

he resurrected.

He’d pry my chest open,

like a window,

and let in her kind of light.

He stepped barefoot

into the hallway of my heart

and whispered things

only she could hear.

He dismantled walls

like they were built

just to impress her

by crumbling.

For a while,

we lived together:

her, me, and the version of me

she made possible.

It worked somehow,

the balance,

until I failed him,

by failing her.

I was afraid

of what he felt,

by feeling what she felt.

So I locked him down.

Told him to quiet.

So, he mistook her

for danger.

Just another brick in the wall

he once tore down.

The proportions changed.

He told her:

There is no space for you.

And she believed him.

She listened and left.

It was the last time

he spoke.

When she left,

she left me alone

with him.

He had always been fragile—

living under my ribs,

speaking only in her presence,

barely believing in his own right to exist.

Without her,

he unraveled.

He paced the walls of my chest

like a prisoner with no sentence.

He begged to feel,

to be held,

to survive the silence.

And I,

I couldn’t take him.

So I silenced him.

Day after day.

Until he lay still.

When she came back,

she knew.

She saw it in my eyes

before I spoke.

I could tell she was scared

by the blood on my hands,

but she didn’t scream.

She knelt beside what was left of him

and tried to bring him back.

Tried everything.

Words. Touch. Patience.

But I wouldn’t let her.

I stood between them,

guarding the crime scene

as if saving him

would mean losing me.

All this time,

he pretended to be dead,

while he waited

until nightfall,

and tied a rope

from my ribs to my throat,

and hung himself quietly

in the space

where her voice used to echo.

Now for once,

he died permanently.

She gathered his body,

still warm,

still soft,

and walked away.

If only she’d left him here.

Then I’d mourn just one person.

But now I’m grieving two—

Her,

and the me

who could feel.

The man I could’ve been

if only she had stayed.

What’s left

is the rational man,

precise, proud,

and painfully intact,

the version of me

that keeps breathing

but no longer lives.

I walk around in him,

but he doesn’t fit me anymore.

I can’t be him anymore.

Not after witnessing

who I buried.

She was the mirror,

he was the reflection,

and I —

I was the crack.

Not only did I know him through her,

for once,

I actually did love him.

But I killed him,

in a thousand different ways,

in every language I know—

with each letter

of an alphabet carved from failure.

I tried to protect the fragile city

inside me

from collapsing in your hands.

But fear is a cruel architect—

it builds walls instead of homes

and calls it safety.

I’m sorry in English—

for all the times you searched my eyes

and found a wall

instead of a welcome.

ごめんなさい—

for letting your softness

go unanswered.

Het spijt me—

for raising my voice

when I should have lowered my guard.

Unnskyld—

for seeing your storm

and calling it rain.

ببخشید—

for the parts of you I couldn’t hold,

because I hadn’t yet learned

to hold myself.

And if I could rebuild anything—

a moment,

a word,

the quiet place

where you stopped trusting me—

I would do it with bare hands,

bleeding if I must,

just to give you

a gentler ending

for gold hanging in the hush of the orchard,

the sweetness swollen with time,

and the taste of forbidden fruit,

untouched by ruin.

Without permission,

time had touched him,

the years surged through his skin.

Wrinkles split across his hands,

like thirsty roots, and endless tree rings.

His fingers curled, hollowing,

his knuckles swelled with years

he had not yet lived.

His grip faltered.

The weight of it became unbearable,

too full, too ripe,

obviously outgrowing him.

Juice seeped between his fingers,

thick, dark, falling—

dripping back into the soil

where his footsteps no longer belonged.

He lifted his hands,

that were no longer hands.

The fire came quietly,

threading through the creases,

a slow, silent undoing.

His flesh curled, blackened,

his touch turning to embers,

his body folding into weightless dust.

The wind did not carry him away.

Instead, it laid him down gently,

ash settling into the roots

of the same tree that once bent for him,

once fed him,

once knew his name.

The orchard did not weep.

The branches stretched higher.

The fruit ripened, fell, was born again.

Again

and again,

and sometimes, he loved me too.

In the quiet between his thoughts,

when the world softened enough for him to feel,

he would reach for me in the dark,

his eyes heavy with the weight of words his mouth left unsaid.

For a moment, he would forget—

he would let himself sink into the warmth of me,

and I would breathe in the weight of his almost-love,

knowing morning would take it away.

I have always loved him,

and sometimes, when the night was soft enough to let him dream,

Then called my dad on mother’s day

Sometimes i think they are divorced,

homelessness is not the worst.

I tried to find a home in someone,

but love moves on, it never stays.

Every hand I held kept walking,

every word became a phase.

A house needs bricks, a roof, a frame,

but all I have can’t hold its name.

Less foundation, more farewell,

a caravan that moves too well.

I wish I could travel, not to a place,

but far from the person with my face,

Like they all did, like they all do,

I pour the coffee, dark and deep,

like midnight’s hands that learn to keep

a love once rich, now bitter-sweet,

a warmth that time refused to keep.

A splash of whiskey, smooth and strong,

burns my throat where you belong.

A fire that flickered, flared, then died,

just like your love, and like my pride.

A spoon of sugar, soft and slow,

melts like the past I used to know.

No crystal melts the ache away,

no spoon can turn the night to day.

The cream comes last, it swirls, it sways,

a ghost that lingers, then decays.

It swirls, it sinks, then disappears—

just like you did, through wasted years.

I drink it down, the past, the pain,

the words we’ll never speak again.

An Irish coffee, dark and true—

Too flat, too bitter, dissolving on the tongue.

People poured it out carelessly,

no garnish, no ice, just tossed back and forgotten.

But then you—

you set the glass down first,

ran a fingertip along the rim, chilled it just right.

Took your time, let it settle.

You measured every letter out, slow, steady,

let my name linger on your lips before letting it spill.

You reached for the shaker,

threw in something sharp, something hot,

let it rattle against the ice,

laughter slipping through the cracks.

Strained it clean, held it up to the light,

spoke it again, softer this time,

like the first sip of something that lingers,

something that warms all the way down.

Now I hear it with sugar on the rim,

with the clink of glass, the dim glow of a bar at closing time,

the slow burn curling behind my ribs.

And I’m drunk on it, on you, on this.

I crave even when I’ve had too much.

So shake it till you make it, love—

Until your voice gave it life,

Now it longs for you.

your phone,

your shoes,

but never the way the air smelled at sunset

or the exact words of a joke six years ago.

Beer spills before you even take a sip,

your jacket moves from chair to floor to—

where

the

hell

did

it

go?

You lose track of time,

of course,

of words mid-sentence,

mid-thought,

mid-breath—

of where you were going before the thought changed shape.

I say stop, you hear pause,

I say wait, you hear why,

I say sleep, and your mind sparks brighter,

leaping from memory to idea to the next great impossible thing.

You don’t move through time,

you make time bend to you,

warping, rewinding, skipping beats.

You lose time, lose track, lose everything—

except your spark.

So go,

forget, lose, misplace,

stumble from thought to thought,

drag me breathless into the whirlwind.

Because with you, nothing is steady,

nothing is certain,

I have never felt more alive.

Warm and bright, but stay too long—

I burn into ash.