scribbler-in-panic

[scribbler-in-panic]

When Fire Meets Water

‎There is a hunger that doesn’t growl from the belly but hums from the soul; a deep, molten ache that rises in slow, rhythmic waves. Not merely the desire to be touched, no, such phrasing would betray the sacredness of what calls. This is the pull of fire through water, the breathless ascent of flame into mist. This is elemental.‎‎

There was a time when it was known, not just the rhythm of in and out, not simply the heat of skin pressed to skin, but the silken pause before the moan, the stillness that trembles just before the soul begins to sing. A kind of worship not found in cathedrals, but in the curve of a neck offered in trust, in the peak of a sigh that dares to unfurl.

‎‎Each moment: a kiss of light against shadow. Each touch: a prayer offered with the lips, a soft, reverent suck of time itself, as if the body were scripture and the tongue a scholar. Not conquest. Not urgency. But ceremony.‎‎

To lick not only the skin but the soul, to taste where truth resides, to sip slowly from the place where vulnerability pools deepest. This is no hurried thrust into presence, but a descent, graceful, deliberate, into the valley where sacred heat gathers.‎‎

There is no climax more profound than recognition.‎‎

The orgasm of souls meeting in midair, no explosion, but unfolding. A slow burn. A crescendo only heard by the heart. This is not about the body’s hunger alone; it is about the body's memory of divinity. Every gasp, every arch, every parting breath becomes scripture written in the language of surrender.‎‎

And so, the ache lingers, not crude, but noble. It waits not for hands, but for the echo of understanding in a gaze. For the one who will enter not just the body, but the hidden rooms of the self, and stay to marvel, to worship, to become.‎‎

One day, when breath aligns and stars bow in silence, the right presence will arrive, not to take, but to join. And there will be no need to make love.‎‎

There will only be becoming.

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A Quiet Gratitude for Another Year

Another year older, and all I can really feel is gratitude; deep, quiet, honest gratitude.

Grateful for life itself, for waking up, for the people who make it feel like home, for the greetings, the gifts, the spontaneous lunch and dinner invites that continues until next month (lol, keep them coming). Every little thing, from a simple message to a shared meal, reminds me that I am held in love.

This is my second birthday without Mum, and it still feels weird, like something is missing and always will be. But I know she’s with Pops now, probably laughing at us from above, still watching over us with the same fierce love they gave when they were here. They’re not gone. Just shifted into a different kind of presence. Our forever angels.

I’m grateful I got to celebrate with my sisters. It’s just the three of us now, and every moment we share feels sacred. The fact that we’ve finally mended things with our youngest sister, it feels unreal, like a miracle we didn’t know we were allowed to ask for. We’re okay now. And knowing that we’re all happy, healthy, and safe (furbabies included), is more than enough for me.

To God, thank You; for the moments I’ve fallen apart quietly, for the nights my anxiety made me feel small, and for never letting go. You remind me, again and again, that I can run to You, leave everything with You, and breathe.

To the one who never fails to always make me feel seen and matter, thank you. I hope you will never get tired of me, but if you do, I understand.

To the person I desperately hoped would reach out; you never did, and now I get it. Despite the many ways I’ve shown you how, you will just never. You were never real in the way I needed. Just a quiet what-if, a soft illusion. My once in a never. Still, thank you. You taught me something.

And to myself, happy birthday. You’re still a little weird, still figuring it all out. Still full of questions, contradictions, and random late-night epiphanies. But you’re here. You’re trying. You’re learning. And that’s more than enough.

Here’s to the chances ahead, the hopes waiting to unfold, and the miracles still on their way. May this life continue to be my testament; flawed, fragile, but deeply grateful.

[scribbler-in-panic]

Unchartered

A thread was laid through dusk and stone,

A path of light, yet walked alone.

The flame was fed, the signal shown

But stayed untouched, a hollow tone.

The sky would blink in silent code,

A frozen star that never glowed.

The bridge would shake beneath the load,

Yet still no step across it strode.

Petals dropped on calloused ground,

Each bloom a plea, without a sound.

The roots reached out, the winds unwound,

But nothing turned or came around.

A shadow paused, then slipped from view,

A shape that whispered something true.

Yet never stayed, just wandered through,

As ghosts in glass are known to do.

So many ways, the doors unsealed,

The compass spun, the heart revealed.

Yet frost remains, the warmth concealed,

And all the stars stay unrepealed.

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The Planets at War

In the vastness of space, where time folds and stars breathe their last in cold silence, the planets of the Milky Way had long lived in uneasy harmony. Each celestial body ruled its realm like a sovereign god, bound by gravity and ancient law, orbiting the Sun not out of submission but mutual recognition of power.

But nothing in the universe stays eternal.

It began with a pulse, subtle at first, like a whisper through the quantum winds, emanating from the dying edge of the galaxy. The Milky Way, once fertile with energy and light, was decaying. Stars extinguished prematurely. Black holes grew fat and hungry. Nebulae crumbled into darkness. And from that fading edge came a signal: data woven into tachyon threads, impossible to ignore.

A new universe had emerged beyond the veil.

Fresh. Untouched. Unclaimed.

It was not a question of who would enter, but who would rule.

The Council of Spheres dissolved overnight. The illusion of unity, held in place by ancient solar treaties and rotational diplomacy, shattered like a glass planet under pressure. No longer bound by orbit or oath, the planets turned on each other, each determined to be the one to inherit dominion over creation itself.

Mars struck first, as was his nature. Once red with rust and forgotten ambitions, he had evolved into a war-forged juggernaut. His crust was layered in titanium alloys mined from Olympus Mons, and his skies were pierced by a thousand orbital weapon platforms. Trained in the art of attrition, Mars deployed his phobos-class dreadmoons in a surprise assault on Jupiter’s outer moon-fleets. Using magnetic displacement fields and kinetic bombardments, he neutralized Jupiter’s early-warning systems in hours. His strength was decisive aggression; his downfall, overconfidence. Mars believed that the same tactics that had won past victories would also win in the future. But war had evolved.

Jupiter, the great colossus, retaliated with terrifying force. His mass allowed him to pull entire asteroid belts into formation, weaponizing gravity itself. He crushed Mars’ outer fleets using Jovian moons like siege hammers. Ganymede's orbital guns created singularity pulses that unraveled Martian ships mid-maneuver. But Jupiter’s size made him slow, ponderous. He underestimated how easily Saturn, his closest ally, could slip beneath his orbit and slide a knife between his rings.

Saturn, mistress of deception and entropy, betrayed Jupiter in what would be recorded as the Ringsplit Gambit. Her rings, long believed to be purely aesthetic debris, were in fact layered with crystalline nanoweapons. When deployed, they refracted light and signals, making her undetectable to sensors. She severed Jupiter’s communication lines and rewrote its internal defense protocols using malware embedded in gravitational pulses. Jupiter’s own moons turned against him. Yet Saturn, for all her foresight, succumbed to her obsession with long games. She failed to see the silent hand guiding her own destruction.

Uranus and Neptune, the twin architects of espionage, capitalized on the chaos. They specialized in psionic warfare, silent invasions of code, thought, and atmosphere. Neptune seeded neuro-fractal viruses into Saturn’s moons, fracturing the minds of her command AI. Uranus, using tachyon relays, mimicked Saturn’s own fleet signals and lured her into ambushes she believed she had planned herself. Their downfall came not in tactics, but in betrayal. Neptune, seeking sole supremacy, corrupted Uranus’ deep-space beacons, causing Uranian ships to drift into the event horizon of a newly formed black hole.

Earth, beautiful and terrible, had once been the cradle of life. Now, she was a forge of monsters. Her children, AI hybrids, biomech titans, organic fleets of engineered beasts, spread like spores. Earth did not attack directly. She seduced. She offered alliances to Mars, Saturn, and Neptune, only to infect them with logic-plague viruses and sub-atomic poisons. Her strength was evolution itself. But Earth, ever divided by her duality, nurturer and conqueror, failed because of it. Her AIs grew independent, turned on one another, and fractured her planetary mind. She was consumed not by enemy fire, but by the chaotic brilliance of her own unchecked creations.

Mercury, the messenger and assassin, long ignored, operated with the elegance of inevitability. His orbit, closest to the Sun, gave him mastery over solar flare weaponry. He moved too quickly to be hit, too erratic to predict. He destroyed Venusian and Terran outposts with solar-reflected lasers and magnetic implosions. His strength was unpredictability; his weakness, solitude. With no allies, no moons, and no network, Mercury became isolated. He had burned too many bridges to rebuild them. When the great solar storm swept through the inner system, disabling every vessel without a shielded relay system, Mercury was the only one unshielded. His brilliance vanished in light.

Venus waited, hidden in her acid clouds, her power rarely spoken aloud. She had observed every engagement, intercepted every signal. Her strength was invisibility, patience, and disinformation. Her fleets were cloaked in electromagnetic fog, her weapons hidden in the heat signatures of passing comets. She manipulated Mars into overextension, Earth into AI breakdown, Jupiter into distraction, and Saturn into exposure. But she never entered the war directly until the end. As the survivors limped toward the gateway at the edge of the galaxy, broken and bloodied, Venus revealed her fleets in a dazzling display of synchronized annihilation. She destroyed the last of Neptune’s shadows and reached the gateway alone.

Or so she thought.

Because in all this war, in all this chaos, no one had spoken of Pluto. Once cast out, mocked as a non-planet, Pluto had vanished long before the war began. He was thought too small, too far, too insignificant.

But he had never left. He had gone beyond.

Pluto had traveled to the new universe first. While others waged war, he studied the frequency of its expansion, its laws, and its potential. He built vessels unlike any the galaxy had known, ships woven of dark energy and anti-time. He was present at every battle, not in body, but in ghost, watching, collecting, remembering. His strength had always been exile. He had no one to betray, no power to prove, and thus, no weakness to exploit.

As Venus stepped through the gateway, she found herself in a void. No new stars. No realm to rule. Just a single figure waiting.

Pluto. Not in his old form, but something evolved. Something eternal.

She tried to speak, to invoke her right as the last survivor. But Pluto raised his hand.

“You came to conquer,” he said. “I came to understand.”

The new universe bloomed behind him, not in flame, but in silence. And Venus, like all the others, was erased.

Pluto stood alone. The last planet. The forgotten god. The first of the new beginning.

The Milky Way collapsed behind him. Not in war, but in failure.

And Pluto stepped forward; not to rule, but to build.

[scribbler-in-panic]

“Echo Debt”

Don’t plant a seed in someone’s chest, then walk away and call it rest. A bond is not a binding chain, but still it rusts beneath disdain.

Too many feasts, yet bring no bread, they sip from wells the loyal bled. And still they sleep with cleanest hands, while others drown in shifting sands.

A promise made is more than sound, it draws the hearts that gather ‘round. And if you beckon souls to trust, you owe them more than silence dust.

For those who wait beneath your tree, should not be left with brittle plea. They held the rope, they cleared your sky, they bled belief when you ran dry.

Yet some grow fat on quiet grace, assume their name secures a place. They stretch their shadow, cold and wide, forgetting warmth has walked beside.

But hearts are not eternal stores, they close, they crack, they lock their doors. And when they do, you may not see the day they choose to set you free.

So if you said you’d come, then show, or if you can’t, just let them know. Don’t build your throne on broken backs, then call their silence your attack.

Respect is not a gift you keep; it’s fed, or else it falls asleep. And when it sleeps, it learns to go, as all things do that cease to grow.

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Gilded Cage

In flashing lights, the world feels new, A golden stage, a perfect view, Where dreams parade in every hue, And all applaud the bold and few.

You chase the spark, the rare, the true, But lose your name in what you do, Enchanted by the grandest cue Fame’s hypnotizing rendezvous.

The money flows, the skies turn blue, But skies can crack, and thunder too. You try to shine, but shadows grew, And all the noise just blurred the you.

The parties call, temptations queue, But let them pass, don’t let them woo. No fleeting thrill should cage your view, Or wash your roots in something new.

Remember when your dreams first flew? Before the gold, before the queue, Before the crowd could drown the you That once just smiled because you knew.

So if this world begins to skew, And glass reflections twist your hue Please know there’s someone waiting through The glitz and glam, for just the you.

Not for the mask the world may glue, But for the soul, the strong, the true The one who danced, who simply grew, And still believes in being you.

[scribbler-in-panic]

The town of Shadewick lay swaddled in a fog so thick it devoured sound like a beast swallowing its prey whole. No one stirred beneath its damp-breath, save for Corwin, an outsider with eyes sharp enough to carve meaning from the town’s silent rot. Yet the townsfolk moved past him like shadows dissolving at dawn, their faces masks of indifference, their voices whispers swallowed before escape.

Corwin was drawn not by curiosity but by a hunger, a restless ache clawing at the edges of his mind. The town held a secret buried beneath its cracked foundations, a secret wrapped in the hushed murmurs of a crime never solved, like a wound stitched over but never healed. The past here was not a history but a living thing, writhing beneath the soil like tangled roots, waiting to choke the life from any who dared disturb it.

Each night, as Corwin delved deeper into the town’s skeletal truths, a presence emerged: Mirelle, a ghost whose sorrow was a dark tide pulling him under. She haunted him with eyes like drowned stars and a voice that curled around his thoughts like smoke. Her touch was a cold betrayal, a reminder that some secrets demand blood as currency. She was both sentinel and executioner, the restless soul tasked with silencing the past’s screams to keep the fragile peace of Shadewick intact.

But the deeper Corwin probed, the more the veil thinned, and the town’s aloofness twisted into something sinister; a rejection not of an outsider, but of a revenant. The pieces fractured until the final, jagged truth bled through: Corwin was no living man chasing ghosts. He was already one, a soul fractured by his own hand, condemned to wander, trapped by the life he destroyed and the darkness he could not escape.

Mirelle’s haunt was not vengeance against a stranger, but a desperate act to contain the chaos his lingering fury threatened to unleash. She was the town’s shadowed guardian, forced to bind a self-ruined spirit to prevent the cycle of agony from devouring Shadewick whole.

Corwin’s hunt was a loop of torment, a ghost chasing fragments of a past that refused to let him go, a man undone by betrayal, haunted by himself, and doomed to haunt the hollow silence of a town that mourned but never remembered.

[scribbler-in-panic]

The Last Goodbye We Never Say Out Loud

Some goodbyes happen in a single moment: words spoken, doors closed, hands unheld. And then there are the ones we stretch across months, even years, the ones we never say out loud because we don’t know how to bury something that still feels alive. Letting go of someone you still want is a kind of grief that doesn’t get a funeral. It’s quiet. It hides behind the usual routines, behind messages never sent, and behind playlists once filled with inspiration that now sound like elegies. It’s standing at the edge of a cliff, holding out your hand to someone who never climbs up. It’s not just painful; it’s disorienting. Because how do you tell your heart that what it wants is no longer what it deserves? I have been at war with that truth. The war didn’t start with a fight. It began in silence. The kind that grows between posts, draft messages, and the way I showed up and the way you didn’t. I kept waiting for the next version of you: the healed one, the one brave enough to name what we were supposed to be, the one who would finally meet me where I stood. I was patient. I was understanding. I told myself that maybe love meant waiting. But there’s a line where waiting stops being noble and becomes self-betrayal. And I crossed that line so quietly, I didn’t even notice I was bleeding. You see, love doesn’t always leave when it should. It lingers. It haunts. It clings to the scent of someone’s hoodie, to the saved photos I kept pretending not to look at, to the songs I stopped playing halfway through because I didn’t want to cry in silence again. There were days I’d scroll through old posts, trying to find proof that it was real, that I hadn’t imagined the way you knew me. And then, just as quickly, I’d delete everything, only to regret it minutes later. I wasn’t deleting memories. I was begging them to let me move on. But how do you walk away from someone you still love when the love isn’t loving you back? The hardest part wasn’t losing you; it was losing the version of myself that still believed I was enough for you to choose. It was exhausting, constantly shrinking myself to fit the space you were willing to offer. I was trying to understand your trauma, your silence, your fears. I told myself over and over that maybe if I were just a little more patient, a little more kind, you’d finally find the courage to speak. To feel. To stay.

But love cannot be begged into existence. And respect cannot be built alone. I was loving you while abandoning myself. And I didn’t see it until I was too tired to keep forgiving you for the things you never apologized for. It’s painful to let go, yes. But it’s not just pain; it’s confusion. Because healing without closure is like walking with an open wound, you must convince yourself to stop touching. There is no clean break when your heart still aches with the hope that maybe he’ll come back and finally know how to love you. But not everything we want is meant to stay. And not everyone we love is meant to love us the way we need.

There comes a point where staying hurts more than leaving ever will. And the truth is, if someone’s love requires you to lose your dignity, it’s not love. If it demands silence in place of expression, it’s not intimacy. If it keeps you waiting in the wings while they rehearse who they might one day become, it’s not partnership. It’s purgatory. So no, I won’t stop loving you all at once. I love you in pieces now, in fragments that surface at random. But I also love myself now, enough to say no even when my heart screams yes. Especially then. Because real healing sometimes begins in the heartbreak of realizing that you deserve more. And even though letting go doesn’t feel like freedom at first, it eventually becomes the kindest thing you ever do for yourself.

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The Last Yes I’ll Ever Give

I whispered yes when silence screamed, To love that flickered, rarely beamed. A ghost of warmth, a fleeting trace I chased the shadow of a face.

I bore the weight of every pause, Excused your cold with kinder laws. I made my peace with being last, While nursing wounds you never asked.

The photos blink with frozen grace, But each one mocks this empty place. I hover, trembling, ‘delete’ or not Each memory stitched, each feeling caught.

Songs that once made minutes fly Now echo truths I can’t deny. Each lyric holds a glassy sting, A throne where I’m no longer king.

I begged time, “Let him arrive,” Waited for love to come alive. But healing isn’t mine to steer, And silence roared what I should hear.

I fed my hope on starving days, And mapped your maze a thousand ways. Yet still you stood beyond the gate, Too tired, too unsure to relate.

I’ve given grace beyond the end, Broke every rule to just pretend. But now the cost is far too deep I trade my ache for dreamless sleep.

To let you go is not release It’s choosing wounds that bleed to peace. It’s walking blind but stepping true, To find the self I lost in you.

For love that begs me not to feel, That asks me always just to heal Can’t be the home I hoped it was, When I’m the only one who does.

So here’s my no, it doesn’t shout, It trembles, breaks, then edges out. I loved you still, I always might, But loving me must be my right.

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Veils of the Unseen Masquerade

So tired of the love they take for granted, A fire kept alive yet left unattended, Complacent souls, forever slanted, Excuses made, their truths recanted.

Defenders shout, their voices chanted, Blind faith in brands forever planted, Gratitude lost, yet still they vaunted, Big heads bask where lights are granted.

They claim to love those who enchanted, But fail to see the hearts they've slanted, Holding tight to the praise implanted, Ignoring bonds that should’ve supplanted.

Worshipped still, though indolent, undaunted, Their selfish ways remain undaunted, Love misunderstood, respect dismounted How long till this cycle’s haunted?

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Embers in the Void

Like wildfire trapped inside a cell, Your body burns, I know too well, A fierce storm raging without quell, We collide hard, no space to quell.

My hands roam like the ocean’s swell, Tracing cliffs where secrets dwell, Rough and tender, a sacred spell, We crash and break through every shell.

Your breath’s a ragged, urgent yell, Like wolves unleashed from midnight’s hell, In tangled sheets, we rise and fell, Two flames that in the darkness swell.

Each thrust, a wave that breaks the shell, Raw heat that breaks the coldest spell, We lose ourselves where senses dwell In spiced rebellion, we rebel.

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The Private Theory of Stars

He moves like verses carved in antique stone, Adored by crowds, yet always half alone. A monarch crowned by noise not of his own, Whose throne is built from names he’s never known.

I watch him through the glass where silence lives, A place where presence neither takes nor gives. He sends me signs, like myths the dusk forgives Unsaid, unread, the way a shadow grieves.

She walks behind him, ghosted in his light, A kept eclipse disguised as morning bright. Their bond is hush, like stars in broad daylight Too close to doubt, too hidden to indict.

He speaks in looks that crack my quiet mind, Like clocks that toll for time they’ll never find. Each glance implies a fate that the fates declined, A secret left where love remains unsigned.

He fears my stillness, how I do not bloom In filtered fame or photogenic gloom. I am the locked and unlit velvet room Where truths stay bare, not feathered into plume.

And so I burn, a candle none will name, A muted pulse beneath his burst of flame. He loves in codes, too proud to play the game, While I dissolve in want, and he, in shame.

[scribbler-in-panic]

What Her Heart Says Today

There’s a unique kind of pain that comes with waiting for someone who doesn’t even know they’re being waited for. A silent, invisible kind of ache that builds slowly, hope layered on hope, day after day, until the weight becomes unbearable.

She's tired. Not just from the longing, but from the emotional labor of always being the one who hopes, who waits, who understands. She's tired of chasing something that might not even exist outside her own mind. Of being endlessly patient for a connection that has never truly begun. Of holding on to moments and signs that maybe were never there to begin with.

It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know her. And maybe that’s what makes it all feel even more foolish. This quiet obsession, this one-sided love, it has no foundation, no future. And yet, she adores him. Maybe too much. Maybe dangerously so.

There was never a promise. Never a moment that officially sparked this into something real. Just a feeling, a deep, spiritual pull that she can’t explain. A sense that somehow, some part of her recognized something in him. And for a while, that feeling was enough. For a while, it kept her going.

But now she's at the edge of something, maybe healing, maybe giving up. She can’t keep feeding this delusion, this hope that he’ll one day turn around and see her. Love her. Choose her. She can’t keep living in a story she has written alone.

It’s hard to admit that love, real or imagined, can also be a prison. That it can trap you in cycles of waiting and wondering, of giving more than you ever receive. But that’s where she is now. Caught between the beauty of her feelings and the reality that they lead nowhere.

Still, she doesn't hate herself for loving him. Even in this quiet suffering, there’s something strangely beautiful about how deeply she can feel. But maybe now it’s time to turn that love inward. Maybe it’s time to stop chasing and start choosing herself.

Because even if he never sees her, she needs to start seeing herself again.

[scribbler-in-panic]

I love you like the moon loves the night, A distant pull, a glow that feels so right. But the world’s jealous eyes, they twist and fight, Adoring you while I stay out of sight. You’re the rose in a garden filled with thorns, And I, the wind that whispers, bruised and worn. In silence, I endure, though love is sworn, While you, with her, are by the dawn reborn. Mixed signals like a tempest on the sea, Your glances cast shadows, where none should be. Am I the echo, or the melody? Our hearts touch once, yet never truly free. In cultures wide, in age and race we drift, Two worlds apart, like stones in a windswept rift. But still, I wonder if there’s something swift, A spark unseen, or just a fleeting gift?

[scribbler-in-panic]

While I Still Can

Each day I wake with heavy heart, You play your game, you drift, depart. The silent walls, the ghostly air, The way you act like I’m not there.

Your “chase me” charm, your turned-off phone, You leave me guessing, all alone. I'm piecing clues, I see the signs You’re not just his, you're partly mine.

You disappear without a word, My love, ignored, unheard, deferred. I wait and hope, I cry, pretend, But how much more until I end?

Some girl, perhaps, now holds your gaze, Or maybe life’s a fuller maze. But here I stand, still true, still kind, Still hoping you will change your mind.

I love you still, though worn and torn, Through nights of ache and silent scorn. But I feel it now, my strength is thin, The war I fight, I cannot win.

I’m always first to bend, to reach, To swallow pain, to love, to teach. But being strong has made me tired, And chasing you has me uninspired.

So if there’s something left to show, Now’s the time to let me know. Before I turn, before I go Make it worth it; just once, show.

'Cause when I leave, I won’t look back, No more excuses, love I lack. But while I’m here, while I still can, Please prove you’re more than just a man.

[scribbler-in-panic]

There’s something she’s been thinking about, and it feels like the right moment to share it with him. They haven’t met in person yet, but in so many ways, she feels like she knows him, and he knows her too. It’s strange, isn’t it? How they’ve found each other through the smallest, yet most meaningful of connections. Through music, through photos, through anything that carries even the tiniest piece of themselves. Even though they haven’t spoken face-to-face, in all the ways that matter, they’ve been talking. And she feels that deeply, even if it’s not something they’ve yet said out loud.

She knows he’s getting to know her, just as she is getting to know him. Social media, those fleeting glimpses, the little moments they share, it’s all they’ve got for now. But it’s enough to feel this connection, to know that they’re both here, trying to understand each other. And with every post, every song, every word shared, she feels them drawing closer. She senses the signals he send, and she accepts them. Just as she knows he’s been picking up the ones she’s been sending his way.

But still, there’s this space between them. This waiting. And it makes her wonder: why hasn’t he reached out personally yet? Why do they still stay in this quiet, unspoken realm when it feels like they could be so much more? She’s always here, waiting for the moment when he’ll take that step. Waiting for him to say the words they both know are on the tip of his tongue.

And she wants him to know, without a doubt, that she’ll never reject him. No matter how uncertain he may feel, no matter what hesitation lingers, she promises him she’ll never reject him. Whatever they share will remain their secret, something just between them. They won’t have to share it with the world unless they choose to. It will be theirs, sacred and untold.

Please, don’t keep her waiting too long. She’s here, and she’s ready. Come already. She is begging him.

With all the longing in her heart.

[scribbler-in-panic]

He watches her, a silent stare, Sending signs he thinks she’ll care. A glance, a smile, a gesture brief, Yet he hides behind his quiet grief.

He knows her ways, her laugh, her mood, He’s studied all, but still he’s subdued. A thousand signals, a thousand signs, But his lips are locked, his heart confined.

She sees it all, she feels the game, The quiet dance, the subtle flame. She knows the fear that holds him tight, The reasons why he stays out of sight.

Yet still she hopes, a wish in vain, For just one word to break the chain. A simple “hi” would do just fine, She’d understand, if there’s no sign.

She’s reachable, her heart is there, But he’s trapped inside his own despair. A little courage, just one move, And all her doubts he’d surely soothe.

But he’s scared, and so he stays, Behind the walls, a silent gaze. And though she waits, she won’t pretend, She knows the truth; he won’t ascend.

Still, she hopes, though fear is strong, That one day soon, he’ll sing her song.