romantic poetry
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I used to think poems were made of metaphors. Turns out… They’re made of people. Of the ones who leave fingerprints on your soul without ever touching it. Now every page starts with your name, even when I don’t write it. Every ending sounds like hope. And every love poem is just another way of…
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If you knew how often I reached for my phone just to see your name… Would it scare you? Or would you smile, knowing someone’s heart has learned the rhythm of your existence? I carry you like a favorite secret. Not hidden. Protected. Because some things are too beautiful to leave in careless hands.
Between Bruises and Blooms 