#poet

The way the screen bleeds blue at two a.m., a ghost in every pixel. This quiet hum. The way the rain finds glass, a thousand tiny drums on lonely windowsills. This quiet hum. The way the breath catches in the throat, a word unsaid, a wish unspooled. This quiet hum. The way the past unwinds on endless feeds, a curated ache, a phantom limb. This quiet hum. The way the future feels like distant thunder, too close to ignore, too far to touch. This quiet hum. And I am here, still collecting these moments, these quiet hums, a sequence of almost-things, held in the soft space between heartbeats, between the world and me.

I’ve won my life but lost the war.

We curate the sheen, the perfect pose, For phantom hearts the algorithm knows. Each candid shot, meticulously framed, A silent self, perpetually renamed. The private ache, the truth within the bone, Is far too real to ever be shown. It gathers dust, unseen, unheard, A lasting echo, not a viral word.

It's the quiet hum of an idle laptop, the faint glow of a phone screen at 3 AM. It's the first sip of too-cold coffee, and the forgotten playlist on a dying battery. It's the weight of a notification left unread, the specific shade of grey in a sky before rain. It's the ghost of a shared meme, suddenly heavy, streetlights blurring through tired eyes. It's the echo of a conversation half-remembered, the sudden quiet when the music just stopped. It's the comfort in worn-out denim, the fear of answering an unknown number. It's the collective breath held across the blue light spectrum, the gentle thrum of global anxiety. It's the persistent green pushing through city cracks, the whispered reassurance that no one else hears. It's the knowing glance exchanged with a stranger in the quiet aisle, the unspoken story held in a shared headphone. It's the slow, quiet build-up of everything felt too deeply.

cleansing to re-tarnish because in the end it never stays how you want

no prayer shall remain unspoken