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“It is a parents responsibility to alter their comfort for the sacrifices of their children.”

As if the living breathing organism that my soul body magically crafted is my divine purpose

That the trauma of not living under a roof where that thought occurred in adolescence is my driving notion

Yet how does one ideally define what is ultimate of their children? How can I succeed in fulfilling their comfort when I am in fact out of my own

Should I take pity for my mother - for being naive in the same guessing game I am facing?

Or should my lack of be my answer?

There is no lack of laughter, full bellies, warm beds and endless love. Yet I somehow wonder if the world I have crafted

Does that mean - I’m doing it right? Does that mean I love my son enough to continue on with this fight? Or Is it merely a battle of the unknown and history repeating themselves

First it tells me to act and scream

Then timidly cower away

As if an instant retraction from its own thoughts

Do we live parallel? Or is she running ahead of me

Protecting me from my own fright

And then in flight we see guilt

Pleasing

Remission

I’m yet to understand the two

And how they live so close

A longing heart where shadows creep.

Half of you lingers, a whisper of the past,

Yet in this silence, I feel lost, outcast.

If yearning is the question, what’s left to draw,

When at the bottom, I search, feeling raw?

Even in warmth, another's embrace,

You remain my comfort, my familiar place.

But is familiar truly the word to choose?

For you’re everything they are not, a muse.

All the things I crave yet cannot possess,

A chase that entangles, a sweet, aching mess.

With every step, I wonder if I’ll find,

A stumble, a fall, a meeting of minds.

After all this time, a truth I reveal,

I love how you make me feel, so - surreal.

In the darkness of the barrel, you shine bright,

A glimmer of hope, my guiding light.

And though you remain just out of reach,

In the realm of hearts and minds, Perception's tethered by the ties, To understand, one must have walked, The paths where thoughts and feelings rise.

Not all will grasp your inner plight, Nor see the world through your own eyes, Yet every feeling, every thought, Is valid, pure—a truth that flies.

So seek not joy in others' gaze, Nor let their views dictate your way, For happiness blooms in your own space, Where love and kindness softly sway.

Hate may creep when shadows fall, As some resist their flaws, their fate, But lead with love, let compassion call, And open hearts can navigate.

Trust your heart, but heed your mind, In harmony, let both align, For you are one, a gift unique, Embrace your truth, let your voice shine.

And with every lashing, you smother with naive eyes only love peering from within

I acknowledge you nothing more as a thought, not nearly as crippling as the anxiety induced reality you aim to create

Reading old feelings on a back lit screen, wondering how a feeling feels so foreign.

How any of the words that formed those sentence’s ever once belonged together.

A line from a Hollywood scene that rippled through my body, as if it were the first time I ever thought about longing for love.

First a shock, but really a realization that love found me exactly when it needed too. No minute too soon and not a moment too late.

Love is met in many forms, a linger of smell that heals all hunger - an echo of sound that transforms too distant times; a touch that stands up every hair on your bodily skin.

Reason 03

What started as a hopeful ploy to distract from your absence

Turned into a million running thoughts and the reasons why I choose to smile even with bitter coffee and no sleep on my hands

Staring out at the ocean blue doesn’t necessarily remind me of you, your eyes aren’t the color of the Pacific Ocean but you do make me feel limitless.

Just as the ocean spans with countless untold opportunities and stories within, you bring those intrusions to life

Thinking of checkered kitchen floor tiles and an old sound turning on the table, life is limitless with you - or maybe a cottage barn with lots of fluffy arms

All stories with unwritten pages waiting for us to write what’s next

The reasons I love you are yet to be completely told