#cassiopeiapoetry

Don’t let your life just slip away.

Find the courage in your voice,

Midnight, our time. The time I get to see you, feel you, and love you.

The time when a dark silence fills the town, where the cold night air keeps everyone behind closed doors. Everyone but us — because during these times we get to finally meet.

I get to see how the silver moon illuminates your smile. I get to feel your touch, gentle and true. At these moments we don't have to hide— not our love, not our bodies, and not each other.

Midnight, the only time when we get to be free, free to do what we want, with the people we want.

How I wish this could go on. No more hiding, no more pretending. But it's only midnight.

The heatwave burns my skin, Like our love does me from within. I think of you and wonder, How long it will take for me to go under.

The summertime is fleeting, Yet we always keep on repeating. We stand on the rooftop, And I wonder if we will ever stop.

The city beneath our feet, Left in an agony of heat. Sidewalks crack in the summer glow, And the truth is—that I know…

As the skyline stretches into a fading hue, All my thoughts stray to you.

Shadows stretch with words unspoken, Promises bent, yet never broken. And all that I can do is pray, That our flame will never fade or go away.

The blank pages wait like a frozen death— Unseen, unheard, and uncared for. Hidden from the world behind a shadow of fear.

But to write is to prove. To be. To say: I am here. To map in words who you are, who you were, and who you will become.

To write is to ignite a fire— one that may spread, may burn, may shine.

To show: I was here. And you will never be forgotten.

Secrets unravel turning it all around, making us grovel— and now we are bound.

Shattered and small, we brace ourselves for the fall.

The truth hits us like thunder, as we all went under.

Not for love, nor by choice— but because you swallowed our voice.

The Sun lights our path, While sparks obscure all our sight, Leaving us astray.

Sometimes even the smallest spark can cause more confusion than guidance.

The wrong train, the wrong stop, the wrong time.

All went wrong that day — and yet everything was right.

Was it fate, or fabrication?

An old coat made of dust, an old friend not spoken to in years, reuniting with the unknown

in an unfamiliar neighborhood — a cozy café fills the air with cinnamon, a view of the hills and trees, silent in the after-day glow.

What were the chances of our meeting?

Thank you @versesbyaaliyah!

🕯️ The Candlelit Memory Challenge

My vision blurred— salt in my mouth.

My ears thudded, sound echoed, but nothing louder than my breath.

Cold linoleum under my knees.

Then—your embrace: warm and grounding, cotton against my cheek.

No more spinning. Breath slowing.

I stayed.

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