cc.

i try to borrow their melodies, hoping they might teach me how to cradle heartache with both hands, yet every note forgets its own sadness the moment your eyes wander into mine. it is difficult to make a home inside melancholy when you keep scattering light across the smallest corners of my day. even silence abandons its loneliness around you. it lingers instead like stained glass beneath the afternoon sun, quiet, luminous, and entirely incapable of sorrow.

there is something astonishing about the way you speak. laughter seems to have chosen your voice as its first language. somehow, every sentence carries the warmth of a morning that has never learned how to rain. i listen to you the way forests must listen to spring, patiently, reverently, as though each word is another leaf unfolding where winter had quietly convinced the branches that they would remain empty forever.

and i often wonder whether beauty has less to do with faces than it does with recognition. perhaps that is why no landscape has ever unsettled me the way your smile does. i have admired oceans stretching beyond the horizon, watched dawn gather gold with impossible patience, traced constellations until my neck ached from looking upward, yet nothing has ever persuaded my heart to become still the way your presence does. it feels as though the world softens its edges whenever you are near, as though even time chooses to walk more slowly just to hear you laugh again.

sometimes i imagine the universe practicing for us long before either of us learned each other’s names. stars rehearsing their places across the sky, rivers memorizing the direction of the sea, flowers waiting entire seasons for the privilege of opening beneath the right sun. maybe destiny is not loud at all. maybe it is simply the quiet discipline of countless beautiful things finding one another without ever forgetting where they were meant to bloom.

they would probably call us mismatched.

i think rivers and oceans would understand us better.

they spend their whole lives belonging to different worlds, yet neither one ever doubts the miracle of meeting. perhaps love has never asked two souls to become identical. perhaps it has only ever asked them to recognize each other despite the distance, despite the weather, despite everything that insisted they were written on separate pages.

so if they call us misfits, let them.

there are galaxies stitched together by invisible gravity. there are birds that trust the wind before they have ever touched it. there are poems that spend years searching for the final line only to discover it had been waiting in the first sentence all along.

maybe we are something like that.

not impossible.

only inevitable in a language the world has forgotten how to read.

and if tomorrow continues choosing us with the same quiet certainty, if the years keep placing your hand inside mine as naturally as dawn finds the horizon, then i hope one day forever becomes small enough to live inside your voice.

because there is no constellation i would rather belong to,

my mind keeps returning like winter to a garden that has already surrendered its flowers. i survive it every time, but survival is a quiet deception; it teaches the branches how to bloom while the roots continue believing only in frost. from a distance, i suppose i look like someone recovering. no one sees the season still kneeling beneath the soil, waiting with impossible patience for everything tender to forget how to live.

there were little signs i kept leaving behind, scattered through conversations like petals pressed between unfinished sentences. i laughed often enough that my grief began borrowing the shape of humour, until even i could no longer tell where the joke ended and the confession began. people asked if i was alright, and i wanted the question to be enough. i wanted language to perform the miracle i kept expecting from it. but some sorrows are older than speech. they refuse translation. they return to silence no matter how gently they are spoken.

i keep searching myself for the place where all this began, convinced there must be something small enough to remove, some hidden splinter around which all this suffering learned to grow. instead, i find entire forests. every answer roots itself beneath another question. every attempt at mending uncovers another fracture that had been patiently waiting beneath it. i have begun to wonder whether i am trying to heal a wound, or merely introducing myself to it over and over again.

i think the hardest part is not the sadness itself. it is the terrible suspicion that i have become fluent in it. i know exactly how to carry it, how to tuck it beneath my smile, how to let it breathe without ever allowing it a name. perhaps that is why it never leaves. perhaps i have mistaken endurance for healing, surviving for becoming. i spent so long believing i was searching for a way out that i never considered the possibility that i was the place i kept trying to escape.

i have been rehearsing the architecture of leaving, though no one ever informed me that departures could bloom before the body moves. hatred, i discover, does not arrive with thunder. it sediments. it gathers beneath the tongue like iron in well water until every attempt to speak tastes faintly of rust. perhaps i do not hate you at all. perhaps i have only grown exhausted from knocking on a door that keeps mistaking my hands for weather.

every unanswered question develops another rib. eventually it becomes an animal large enough to sleep beside me. i feed it with the hours between your replies, with the punctuation i invent on your behalf, with every sentence i convince myself you almost said. by morning it has learned my breathing better than i have.

my mind has become unreliable terrain. there are afternoons when i mistake delirium for sunlight, when every window appears capable of forgiving me, and there are evenings when the walls begin preserving echoes that were never spoken aloud. something pale has nested inside my thoughts. i cannot name it without making it more real. it grazes quietly, leaving behind immaculate bones where certainty used to stand. i wake believing i have misplaced an organ, only to remember it was faith.

doubt has outgrown suspicion. it has become climate.

it drifts beneath my skin the way groundwater remembers a drought, invisible until the fields begin collapsing. my stomach has forgotten the difference between hunger and grief. each ache translates itself into another language before i can answer it. if there exists a physician for this particular inheritance, i imagine they would prescribe an alphabet untouched by your name.

still, i continue returning to you.

not because you call me back, but because absence is an accomplished ventriloquist. it borrows your voice. it arranges your silhouette inside every quiet room until solitude becomes another species of haunting. you arrive most faithfully when you are nowhere at all. smoke has always understood this. it lingers with greater conviction than fire.

sometimes i wonder whether betrayal precedes the wound. whether it is already folded into the blueprint, waiting patiently beneath fresh paint, smiling through the wallpaper until the house remembers what it was built to become.

i long for your words with the caution of someone approaching a cathedral already consumed by ivy. i could ask for tenderness, but something unseen closes its fingers around my throat before language reaches daylight. perhaps i have mistaken devotion for disappearance. perhaps i have spent so many seasons reducing myself that i now enter love the way dust enters abandoned churches—present, suspended, and apologizing for occupying light.

i have begun to think consciousness is carnivorous.

the more clearly i witness us, the less of myself remains uneaten. every realization removes another small country from the map of my body. i cannot decide whether knowledge is a lantern or merely a cleaner method of burning. there are nights when i believe i could survive either your absence or your presence, but never the narrow kingdom between them, where every heartbeat is cross-examined and every silence is mistaken for prophecy.

if i become unbearable, know that it did not happen all at once.

erosion has always preferred patience.

i have spent impossible hours studying the geography of your face. there are valleys where laughter settles before it reaches your mouth, and quiet little countries behind your eyes where afternoon seems to live forever. i have never believed beauty belonged to symmetry. yours is the sort that arrives slowly, like daylight climbing the walls of an unfamiliar room until every ordinary thing begins wearing gold.

your soul has always reminded me of earth after rain—not for its softness, but because it knows what to do with brokenness. things grow around you without asking permission. conversations bloom where silence once slept. even my most restless thoughts seem to loosen their shoulders whenever your name wanders through them. if peace ever borrowed a heartbeat, i imagine it would sound remarkably like yours.

your words do not fall from your mouth; they germinate. they leave carrying small seeds beneath their fingernails, and before i know it, whole forests have appeared inside me. there are sentences you have spoken so absentmindedly that you have long forgotten them, yet i still keep them folded between my ribs like pressed flowers, opening them only on days when the world forgets how to be kind.

i have been writing since childhood, before i knew that language could shelter a person. i wrote because paper never hurried me. because blank pages listened longer than most people did. because ink understood that some feelings arrive barefoot and should never be rushed. but meeting you altered the gravity of every sentence. words that once wandered without destination suddenly learned the shape of home. every unfinished page began leaning quietly in your direction.

sometimes i wonder if every poem i wrote before you was only practicing. perhaps every metaphor was rehearsing your arrival. perhaps every notebook was merely another room waiting for your footsteps. i no longer believe inspiration comes like lightning. i think it comes looking very much like you—smiling at something small, speaking as though kindness were the easiest language ever invented, making even an ordinary afternoon feel worthy of remembrance.

after all, i have never wanted to be admired from a distance. i have only wanted to become familiar. to be the page whose corners soften because your hands keep returning. the line you remember by rhythm instead of title. the verse that visits you while you’re washing dishes, walking home, or waiting for the kettle to sing. not because you tried to remember it, but because it quietly chose not to leave.

most of all, i’d like to be a poem—not one you simply read, but one you keep living with. one whose meaning changes each time your heart does. one that grows older beside you without growing distant. and if, years from now, my name escapes you before my words do, i think i would call that love. for what greater mercy could there be than becoming a language your soul remembers, even after your memory has forgotten where it first learned to speak it.

lover boy, who knew you wouldn’t play toys just to destroy. there is a peculiar mercy in your hands, the kind that arrives without announcing itself. i look at you and think of untouched cathedrals, of rainwater gathering in the mouths of statues, of prayers forgotten for so long they begin to bloom moss. the fragility of your face feels ancient somehow, as though sorrow had visited you many times and still found itself unable to stay.

won’t you tell me all of your problems and we embrace. lay them before me like offerings. let me count every grief by its true name. i want the aching inheritance of your silence, the things that sit beneath your ribs like winter fruit refusing to rot. let me learn the geography of your wounds until they resemble constellations instead of scars.

say, are you my lover or my savior, for every wound becomes less painful in your favor. perhaps that is what frightens me. the way your presence rearranges the architecture of suffering. the way despair loosens its teeth whenever you speak. you arrive like a lantern carried through floodwater, and suddenly even ruin becomes beautiful enough to survive.

ㅤ⠀ ⠀ ㅤ⠀ 🥨.⠀ ⊹ ⠀#løveprosë ˓⠀ ͟ 🔍

ㅤ⠀ ⠀ ㅤ⠀ ◌ ﹏ ✶‎　╱　mr. 𝑫etective.

⠀

we would be a misfit.

on paper, if someone had lined up our facts and looked at them from a distance, they would have written us off. there was no logical reason our paths should have bent toward each other, let alone become this necessary.

but you love mysteries. you love the desperate, patient pursuit of an answer—the kind that keeps an investigator awake at two in the morning, pacing a quiet room. you are possessed by the small, haunting details that tell a story: the damp weight of a wet coat slung over a chair, a stray strand of hair left on a pillow, the calculated height of someone standing in the dark, or a single, smudged fingerprint on a glass. you move through the world believing that everything leaves a trace, that longing always leaves a footprint in the mud, and that no one is ever entirely lost if someone cares enough to look.

and i think that is why you found me.

not all at once, not with a dramatic collision, but the way a true investigator pieces together a cold case: step by deliberate step. a sentence mentioned in passing, a poem folded carefully between conversations, a fear disguised as a joke, a heavy loneliness i thought i had buried too deep to be tracked. you gathered these clues without telling me. somewhere along the way, you assembled a version of me from the fragments i didn't even realize i was leaving behind.

that is what unsettles me most. not just that you love me, but that you arrived at me so honestly. you looked at the messy evidence of my life and stayed to investigate. in a world this loud and fractured, your attention is the only thing that makes sense. it is the rarest, most sacred form of love.

months later, you return to me carrying details i have already abandoned—the title of a book i mentioned once, a childhood memory i thought had dissolved into the dark, a word spoken on a rainy afternoon that seemed forgettable to everyone except you. you have longed for me even when i was standing right in front of you, searching for me in the spaces between my breaths, following my shadow through the room.

sometimes i think you know me entirely through accumulation. through a quiet, beautiful gathering of small truths, until they begin to resemble a person. and God, how terrifying it is to be understood through the things you never realized you revealed. i spent so much of my life feeling unread, like a case file left out in the weather, that your devotion feels almost impossible—like discovering someone has been carefully drying and preserving pages i thought the rain had already ruined.

you make me feel documented. remembered. real.

if i am being honest, i want to be studied by you like this forever.

i want to remain unsolved.

i want there to always be another layer of me for you to uncover, another shadow for your hands to find, another quiet mystery for us to wander through together. not because i wish to hide from you, but because the investigation itself has become our love language. i want to be the one mystery you never quite close.

every human being wants to be found. and somehow, against all probability, you did.

ㅤ⠀

i am the least capable in the room, or perhaps only the most aware of it. there is a peculiar violence in being present among those who belong, in occupying a space that seems to recognize everyone but you. i often wonder if gratitude is the expected posture—to sit quietly, to accept proximity as a privilege, to be thankful for air that was never meant for my lungs. and yet something in me resists that quiet acceptance, because what is this if not a slow drowning? not the kind that thrashes and begs to be seen, but the quieter descent, where breath shortens politely and the surface drifts farther without protest.

how did they get here?

For a heart that only returns to a dark room after a storm, I shouldn’t recommend having you near. But how can I resist the pull of the shore? You are the prettiest soul I have ever known, the only one I want to open the door for. How beautiful you are, with that shiny smile and pure soul that burns with a passion it doesn't even know it owns. I would drown myself in that light of yours, sinking down until the only thing left to see is the shade your body throws.

My favorite weather is anything as long as the wind blows, but even in the heaviest gale, your light would never go out. Because it was mine to begin with—it is the light I imagined in the dark when I was full of doubt. It is the only thing I see when the world goes quiet and I think of you.

Let me confess: I have spent a lifetime learning how to be a ghost in my own skin, crouching in the damp corners where the salt-heavy rain always settles after the house gives in. I thought the dark was a shelter because it never asked me to show my wounds. Then you stepped through the frame, carrying your chest like a room where the sun never goes down, completely unaware of the currency of your own heat. It is a terrifying, holy thing, the way you burn without making a sound.

If I had any sense of survival left, I would warn you away. I would tell you that a person who is still wet from the wreckage has no right to touch a thing so beautifully dry. But I am a creature made of greed. I look at the gold pooling in your eyes and I want to sink into that brightness until the water in my lungs finally matches the warmth of your shadow.

I used to pray for the windiest hours—the kind of weather that tries to tear the leaves from the branches—because it felt like the only thing violent enough to echo the noise inside my head. But let the gale press its cold mouth against the glass now. It cannot touch you.

How could it? Long before you arrived to touch my skin, I had already dreamed you up out of the scarcity. When the night was too wide to cross, I sat in the dark and drew the shape of a flame that could save me. I drew your name into the air before I even knew how to speak it. You see, this light isn't a stranger. It is an inheritance. It was always ours to hold, because when I think of you, I am finally thinking of a home that doesn't collapse under the weight of the sky.

The place you are right now suits you; it holds you with a grace I could never quite replicate. I watch from the periphery as the light catches the laughs you gift to others—those effortless, mesmerizing things that fall from your lips like sudden rain. Your smile still shapes pieces of artwork in the air, a gallery of expressions that no longer belong to me.

You have been good since you left. There is a newfound softness you carry, a quiet benediction that you scatter among those new friends of yours, blessing them with a version of yourself that is light and unburdened. You move through your days with a delicate devotion to the present, while I have become a sanctuary for the silence you left behind.

Now, I am prone to a specific kind of sadness—a heavy, familiar weather that settles in my bones. I am a ghost dwelling in the places where you aren't, tracing the outlines of shadows and memorizing the shape of the void. While you are out there, breathing in the wide, open world and blooming in soil that doesn't know my name, I am here, anchored to the low tide of your departure.

I find myself longing for a different geometry of being. Why must I carry the weight of this pulse when I could have been a butterfly, flickering through the ribcage of a sleeper—a soft, frantic heartbeat trapped inside a human’s dream? Instead, I am the one who bargains with the horizon, begging the sun to stay buried. I wish for a night that refuses to break, a darkness long enough to swallow the memory of what it means to wake.

You can barely call this evening yet, and already I am praying for the shadows to stretch and thicken. I dread the dawn; I dread the inevitable return to this flesh that feels less like a home and more like a collection of splinters. To rise is to break. To step outside is to witness the grotesque buoyancy of the world—groups of people moving with a lightness that feels like a personal insult. Their joy is a mirror I cannot look into without shattering.

and I breathed only for you.

When your voice drifts across the room, it carries a lethargic calm that I cannot mimic. To your friends, you are a soft cadence; to me, you are a riot. My heart becomes a frantic, hollow thrumming—a chaos that twists in my stomach like wings beating against a cage. I keep these things behind my teeth. I let the thoughts burn my mind until the heat is all that’s left, a silent fever I carry because the truth of these feelings is a weight you were never meant to hold.

You shouldn’t know.

I have memorized the ghost of your preferences, and they are a map that leads everywhere except to me. Every detail you share about what you love—the traits, the looks, the quiet habits—is a slow tightening of the vine around my throat. I am the opposite of your desire. It is a jagged realization, a twist in my gut that worsens with every word you speak, because I am learning the exact shape of the person I will never be for you.

When you leave, my eyes perform a deliberate, desperate search, scanning the edges of the crowd as if looking for a ghost. It is a hollow ache to confirm, over and over, that you are anchored elsewhere, sitting beside the one who fits the world you want.

his favorite color is the absence of one, yet he is what life looks like when painted in its happiest hues. i can think of nothing but perfection when i see him—how he moves with a freedom that feels effortless, yet tempered with a delicate grace. his gaze is a quiet spell, mesmerizing in the way it stills the world, offering a sanctuary in the curve of his eyes, a refuge i never knew i longed for. he walks through life like sunlight spilling across a forgotten landscape, a radiance both tender and incendiary, the kind of warmth you crave without ever naming it. every subtle gesture, every pause, lingers like a secret in the air, etching itself into the heart with a precision that is both exquisite and unbearable. the moment i first spoke with him, i felt the weight of something rare. his words carried a gravity that was both gentle and unyielding, an honesty that settled into the hollow spaces i didn’t know existed. the moments we shared—fleeting stories, confessions—felt delicate and luminous, a bittersweet light i could barely hold. and in that closeness, i realized how completely i had fallen, how his presence, his care, his quiet devotion, could mend the fractures of my soul i had long believed unhealable. in him, the world softens and ignites at once, and i find myself suspended between awe and longing, adrift in the warmth of someone whose brilliance reshapes every shadow inside me, yet remains forever just beyond my reach.

ƸӜƷ . 𓂅 𖣂 𝓗aunting M͟e. ㅤ

At midnight, when everyone is asleep, I hear you in the hush of moonlight. My shadows gather against the walls, conspiring to redraw your shape, as if darkness itself refuses to let you go. Your name echoes through me like an accusation — I am the suspect, and you are the one who died. You visit my dreams like a crime I committed and can never confess, lingering in the quiet like evidence that will not disappear.

Even in crowded places, where bodies brush past and voices blur into noise, I feel you. Strangers turn into jurors, their passing glances heavy with blame, as though they know what I lost, what I ruined, what I could not save. I walk among them already condemned, carrying a guilt that has no sentence and no end.

So haunt me — until even my silence speaks your name, until every quiet room becomes a courtroom,

until sleep feels like punishment and waking feels worse.

you were never as deep as the shallowness you made me seem. i carried that belief like a confession, letting your gaze reduce me until i mistook your limits for my own. what i thought was depth in you was only the authority of someone who spoke with certainty and never with care.

the mouth that lies is said to deserve punishment—according to the faithful, according to every lesson that ever tried to make holiness simple. yet i kissed those lips anyway. i treated every dishonest word you uttered with tenderness, as though affection could sanctify deceit, as though love itself were a form of pardon. i held your lies close, not because i believed them, but because i wanted to believe you.

what i gave you was real; what you took from me was not. you learned how to harvest devotion without ever intending to return it, how to speak tenderness like a language you never planned to live in. i offered you my trust in full, and you accepted it as entitlement—draining me quietly while calling it love. you hid behind the illusion of goodness, convinced that believing yourself kind would absolve you of the harm you caused. and when i was finally empty—when there was nothing left to take—you looked at the wreckage and acted surprised, as if i had broken myself alone.

in my younger days, i thought awareness would save me—that knowing would make devotion impossible. instead, i loved you with my eyes open, and that is the cruelty i cannot forgive myself for. you shattered me because truth demanded effort you refused to give.

deceiver. coward. fraud. words for someone i once loved—truer than anything i could have admitted while staying. the damage was real, and so was the way you made me feel i deserved it. did you ever love me, or was i only a space to fill your emptiness, a name to claim without meaning it? i mistook that for belonging.

　 ⸝⸝　a　ਏਓ 　love　{..}　curse　丶.

　 9PM　爱. #InkMadeOfMemory ฺ

　 🗒️　╱ ⠀메모에 담긴 사랑ꜝꜝ !⠀ ❀ ⠀៸៸

let me be the longing your dreams cannot escape.

let me haunt the words you try to speak but never dare to name. when you sit by a bus window, watching the world slide past you, may the scenery whisper me back into your mind without your consent. may my voice remain lodged somewhere in your hearing—faint, persistent—the kind that tightens your chest and leaves a quiet ache in your stomach, the kind that makes you realize too late that yearning itself began the moment you met me.

every road you walk, no matter how far, will always bend back in my direction. let me live inside the corners of your memory, carried to you by wind you cannot stop, by silence you cannot outrun. may you learn to live with the emptiness of wanting to hear from me again—and knowing you never will. may every light you pass remind you of how brightly i once existed in your life, and how you can no longer call that light your own. may the darkest hours of your days be filled with the soundless echo of my name, as if even the air you breathe refuses to let me go.

and when you meet new faces along the road you choose without me, may my shadow linger in them—just enough to remind you that some absences do not fade, they deepen. some people do not leave; they remain like a curse, living inside the longing they taught you how to feel.

may the rain drench you in the scent of the love i once gave you—so familiar that it unsettles you, so tender that it hurts to breathe it in. may every shelter you find feel incomplete, as if warmth itself remembers the shape of my absence. and when a friend holds you close, may the comfort only deepen the hollow inside you, because their arms will never fit the way mine once did.

may the patterns of the ceiling at night begin to gather into my face without your permission—lines and shadows arranging themselves into something you cannot unsee. may that image linger even after you close your eyes, pressed into your thoughts like a mark that refuses to fade.

you look at me as though i am someone worth lingering over, as if the feeling you found in me had been waiting quietly for you all along. the way you choose me makes me feel unmistakable—not something to be replaced or searched for again, but something already known. it feels as though my heart learned your rhythm before i ever knew your name, as if every beat remembers me where i once doubted myself.

you love me in a way i never learned how to expect. it is unfamiliar and achingly gentle, like being held in a world that is often too heavy to carry alone. with you, living feels lighter, almost kind. you make my days easier to endure, my life softer to inhabit. there are moments with you i want time to forget how to take—memories i return to when i miss you, holding them close as proof that i was loved without condition.

i see you as one of the greatest paintings, something that deserves the finest frame and the longest gaze, and in the quiet of admiring you i ache to reach out, to touch what feels impossibly beautiful. you are a museum i could wander through at any hour, craving the art of a soul vast enough to deserve an entire universe. knowing you feels like coming home—steady and certain. i would risk everything i am, just to be here with you again and again.