Ice

If you ever reach the places

I don’t speak from,

you’ll find something in me

maybe I wasn’t meant

for the kind of love that sits quietly

the soft kind, the steady kind,

the kind that doesn’t shake the walls.

there’s a pulse in me

that craves the unsteady,

a restlessness that finds comfort

only in the chaos.

I don’t want peace that feels like distance,

or calm that tastes like silence.

I want something that bruises and breathes,

something that hurts because it’s real.

some hearts are made for gardens,

mine was made for thunderstorms

loud, relentless,

I never thought much of red.

It was loud, Too bold.

Never quiet enough to sit with.

Never soft enough to hold.

But then you looked at me,

and said my color was dark red.

And suddenly, red meant something else.

It wasn’t just heat or warning signs anymore, it was warmth... It was depth...

A steady burn, like something that stays with you, even when everything else fades.

I’ve never seen red as beautiful as I do now.

It wasn’t my favorite.Not until you saw it in me.

Not until you made it feel like something worth keeping.

Maybe that’s love... a color you never cared for,

until someone you love says,

"This is what I see when I look at you."

it’s getting cold again

and maybe i am too.

i don’t reach out much now,

don’t look for warmth like before.

some winters never really leave,

they just move in quietly,

find a corner inside you

and stay.

some nights,

i can’t tell if it’s the wind

or me

I see you

the one chasing answers

that never stay.

You feel too much, too fast,

kneeling to lies

you already suspect.

I know you.

Because I am you.

Your heart won’t pause,

your steps never rest.

You push forward,

but the scars follow close.

You think the ache will never end

numbness or collapse,

attention or invisibility.

Even happiness feels borrowed,

and then it slips away.

But listen

this too has a rhythm.

Let it crack you,

let it fester.

And when it breaks,

you’ll rise with both hands free:

holding what was,

Isn't it strange

one day we were strangers,

two lives that barely brushed the same street,

names that meant nothing,

faces that belonged to other stories.

Now, before I eat, I hope you’ve eaten.

Before I sleep, I pray you’re resting.

Before I wish for anything else,

I wish for you.. your laugh, your quiet,

the small weight you carry to feel lighter.

How did your name become a home I recognize?

How did you become my first thought in the morning

and the silent prayer at night?

I don’t know the math of it.

I only know the grateful part

that somewhere, somehow, the universe let our paths cross.

you ask me why i love you

and i wish i could give you a list.

like the stargazer who points and knows beauty

without naming the constellations,

i just look and something in me falls.

like an addict who remembers the warmth,

not the chemistry,

i feel the pull and it’s bigger than reason.

like someone who eats slowly, eyes closed,

and can’t explain why that bite mattered,

i savour you without a recipe.

i’m not an astronomer, a chemist, or a chef.

i’m not a map for feelings.

i’m only the person who keeps turning toward you.

i don’t have the language to teach you why

only the proof of wanting to try.

i want to learn the words, learn the ways,

crack open the walls in my chest and show you everything inside.

so if my answer stumbles, forgive it.

i can’t explain every reason.

i only know this: when i look at you,

but an echo of a person

is not a person at all

just a hollow shape

that answers when you call.

and the memory of a memory

is only a dim light

at the end of a tunnel

that never ends.

we can’t go back

to who we were.

we only keep walking,

haunted by the sound

I’ve tried to write it

pages and pages,

verses chasing after your name.

but nothing I touch

ever carries the weight of it,

the way your laughter

slips into my silence,

tears down the walls

I built around sadness,

and leaves me ruined

beautifully, completely,

and already

I count the seasons

like borrowed time

not knowing how many

I’ll be given

have you ever brushed a memory

only to find it still sharp enough to wound?

that’s what her eyes do in my sleep

they don’t just look,

they lay bare the places I swore had healed,

stacking my fractures neatly,

I keep leaving space for people

who will never walk through the door.

I leave lights burning for arrivals

that were never promised.

Loneliness doesn’t wait outside

it lives here now.

It signs my name,

takes my side of the bed,

leans in close and says,

and call me

if you ever forget what it feels like to matter.

I’ll lend you my eyes

so you can see yourself

the way I do

not ordinary,

not replaceable,

but the rarest thing

I’ve ever stumbled across.

and maybe then

you’ll understand

the world isn’t beautiful on its own,

She is the poem

I wanted to write

but every time I tried,

the words broke in my hands,

fell between the lines,

turned into silence

instead of verses.

She is the unfinished sentence

in every notebook I own,

the thought that refuses to settle,

the storm I keep chasing

just to feel alive.

Maybe she was never meant

to fit inside language.

Maybe she was only ever meant

to be felt.

And in the end,

I realized

maybe she was never mine

I’ve said my share of goodbyes

to friends, family, people I once loved.

They’ve all hurt in their own way.

But this one…

this one feels different.

It’s heavier.

Quieter.

Like it took something from me I didn’t know could be taken.

People leave, and usually, you find ways to fill the spaces they leave behind.

But this time

it’s not just you I lost.