Love & Desire
Love in all its forms—desire, longing, heartbreak, tenderness, complicated connections, and the people who leave fingerprints on the heart.
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After years of surviving, gentleness feels almost unfamiliar—until love begins to look less like fireworks and more like safety.
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She does not need saving—only someone who can see the tired eyes, old wounds, and chaos without asking her to become smaller.
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A love accepted in a smaller shape just to keep one particular person close leaves worth and regret deliberately unresolved.
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Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
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It may not be love yet, but something keeps tilting her world toward one person with unmistakable gravity.
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Silence becomes its own language in the lingering glances, unfinished goodbyes, and distance that never teaches the heart to wander.
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Some people never fully leave; they become the ache of almost, lingering in songs, coffee cups, and the empty spaces beside us.
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Some connections are terrible at staying and strangely gifted at finding their way back to the same conversation.
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If timing were somewhere they could meet, perhaps there would be a version of them that never had to keep saying goodbye.
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Home becomes a scent left on borrowed fabric—sawdust, sweat, summer, and the strange peace of breathing someone in after they are gone.
