wondersmithswondelrand

[wondersmithswondelrand]

How do I keep my edges sharp when she softens every part of me just by existing? How do I remember the sound of my own voice when hers is the only melody I want to hear? She speaks, and it is as if the air rearranges itself to make more room for her words, as if the sky bends a little closer so it doesn’t miss a syllable. She laughs, and the ground beneath me feels steady for the first time in years, yet my heart is a trembling thing that can’t decide if it wants to leap or kneel. I used to walk through the world as if it were simply a place to pass the time, but now it feels like a stage, and she is both the script and the spotlight.

How do I remain my own person when every thought I have seems to orbit her like planets desperate for the pull of her gravity? How do I wake up and not measure the worth of the day by the proximity of her presence? She doesn’t just colour my world — she remakes it. The dull grays and tired blues are gone, replaced by shades I didn’t even know could exist. And when she’s not here, I find myself searching for her in the curve of clouds, in the gentleness of rain, in the hush of night. Even the moon, faithful and ancient, feels like her messenger, carrying my unsent words to her window.

I ask myself if it’s dangerous to let someone become so intertwined with the rhythm of my pulse. But how can I pull away when she is the one who taught my heart how to beat without fear? Before her, I guarded myself like a city under siege, careful not to give too much, careful not to let love undo me. But she has undone me so beautifully that I can’t even mourn the loss of my walls. She is my undoing and my rebuilding in the same breath. And perhaps that’s the truth I’ve been avoiding — that I don’t want to resist being consumed by her. I want to let her have me, even if I vanish in the process.

Maybe it isn’t about holding on to the edges at all. Maybe it’s about letting her soften me until I am nothing but the shape her hands have made. I used to think that strength was in staying untouched, in keeping myself whole no matter who came close. But what good is being unbreakable if it means no one can leave their fingerprints on you? What good is a fortress if it never becomes a home? She has turned me into something open, something porous, something that breathes in the warmth she gives and exhales it back in a thousand quiet ways. If that’s losing myself, then I’ll keep losing, over and over, until there’s nothing left but her in me.

I don’t just think about her — I move through her. The way her absence bends time, stretching moments into hours, hours into days, until all I can do is wait for the world to feel right again. I’ve memorized the cadence of her voice so deeply that silence feels like an unfinished song. I catch myself smiling at the smallest things — a golden patch of sunlight, the smell of rain — because they are hers now, claimed simply by the fact that she exists in my life. Every beauty I notice feels like a note passed between us, something the universe created to remind me she’s here, even when she isn’t.

And maybe that’s the risk — that I will forget where I end and she begins. That I will look in the mirror one day and see only the reflection of the way she loves me. But if the choice is between a life where I am untouched and a life where I am rewritten by her presence, I will choose the latter without hesitation. Because there is nothing in me that does not want to be hers. If she asked, I would give her the pulse in my throat, the air in my lungs, the days I have yet to live. Not out of sacrifice, but out of the quiet, certain knowledge that some people are worth being remade for.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

Her lips were the color of whispered secrets—soft, flushed, impossibly full—as if every unspoken word I’d ever buried found refuge there. There was something dangerous in the way they curved when she smiled, like the kind of danger that doesn’t scream or strike, but lures you in gently, makes you forget the sound of your own name. They looked like they could ruin prayers—turn devout men into heathens, make saints forget their vows. Not because of temptation, no, but because of the promise of something sacred in the ruin. And gods, I wanted to be ruined by her. Not for lust, not for pleasure—but for the sanctity of being known, wholly, wordlessly, through the press of her lips against mine.

I watched her sometimes, when she didn’t know. When her lips parted slightly while she read, or when she bit the corner of her mouth in thought. Every small movement felt like the ticking of a clock I couldn’t rewind. It was maddening, the way I memorized each line, each shade of pink that bloomed when she was embarrassed or shy. I kept wondering how many words she’d swallowed before they reached me, how many times she almost said something—something I needed to hear—only to let it die on her tongue. And I hated that I couldn’t ask. I hated that I loved her too much to press for answers she wasn’t ready to give. So I just watched, and wished for a world where her lips could tell me everything she never dared to say.

There were nights when I dreamt of her—only her mouth, moving slowly, mouthing words I could never catch. I’d wake up gasping, reaching for something I never had in the first place, haunted by the absence of something I never truly touched. There’s a kind of ache that comes with loving someone like her. The kind that digs its teeth into your ribs and doesn’t let go, because she doesn’t just take up space in your heart—she becomes the architecture of it. Her lips weren’t just lips to me. They were the altar I prayed to in silence, the edge I stood on, waiting to fall, the sentence I never finished because I didn’t want to know how it would end.

She would talk sometimes, casually, not knowing the effect it had. And I’d find myself staring like a fool, pretending I could focus on her words while every fiber of me was tethered to the soft shape of her mouth. There’s something cruel about loving someone from a distance, but being close enough to notice every detail—the slight tremble when she’s nervous, the way she presses her lips together when she’s sad, trying to hold herself together. I wanted to kiss away every pain, every memory that dimmed the light in her. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know if I had the right. All I could do was offer her silence, presence, a kind of love that waited at the edges, quietly.

And maybe that’s why it hurt the most. Because I knew those lips would one day speak someone else’s name with the softness I craved. I knew they’d smile at someone else, kiss someone else, tell someone else the stories she never told me. And I’d still love her. Still remember how her lips looked under golden light, how they tasted in my dreams—like forgotten promises and the ache of almost. I don’t want to forget her. Not even the pain. Because the pain tells me I loved her right, even if I never touched her.

I wonder sometimes—if she ever noticed the way I stared, the way my eyes always found her lips in a crowd, like a compass pulling me north. I wonder if she knew how many poems I buried in the shape of her mouth, how many prayers I whispered to the night hoping one day she’d understand. I never asked for much—not her love, not her kiss. Just the chance to be the name her lips chose when they finally decided to speak their truth. But maybe that was too much. Maybe I was always meant to love her quietly, from a distance, in the silence between all the words we never said.

There’s a kind of madness that sets in when you’ve memorized someone’s every word, every silence, and yet you remain a stranger to their heart. I carried her laughter like a sacred hymn, replayed it in my mind when the nights got too long and too empty. But her lips—those lips—held stories I’d never hear, names I’d never know, touches I’d never feel. Sometimes, when she talked about her past, I caught glimpses of what broke her, and all I wanted to do was take those shards and piece them back together with my own hands. I would’ve bled gladly for her, if it meant she’d smile without the weight behind her eyes. But instead, I stayed still, afraid that moving too close might shatter whatever fragile peace we had. Loving her was a lesson in restraint, in holding back every urge to say, “You don’t have to hurt alone anymore.”

I imagined it too many times—her lips brushing mine, not in passion, not in haste, but in that slow, reverent way where time feels like it forgets how to move. I imagined her fingers tangling in my shirt, not out of need, but comfort. And I wondered what it would feel like to wake up to her voice, her breath against my neck, her name etched into the stillness of morning like a blessing. But these were just dreams—illusions I painted over reality to soften the blow of not being hers. And I hated myself for it. For romanticizing every glance, every smile, like I had the right. Because the truth is, I was just someone who loved her, and she… she was someone who never needed to know. Some love is too heavy to gift, and mine was a burden she never asked to carry. So I bore it alone, silently, like a secret I couldn’t stop bleeding.

Even now, when I close my eyes, I can still feel her presence—like a ghost haunting the better parts of me. Her voice echoes in the quiet corners of my mind, a lullaby I never deserved. And those lips, soft and unspoken, still linger in every poem I write, every sigh I release into the dark. I wonder if she’s happy now. If someone else has memorized the way her lips form a smile, if someone else is close enough to hear her unspoken fears. I hope they’re kind to her. I hope they realize that loving her isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about the quiet, sacred act of staying. Because if I couldn’t have her, I at least wanted her to be held right. And maybe that’s all I ever needed—not to be her choice, not to be her love, but to know that somewhere, she’s at peace, and the lips that once ruined my prayers are finally kissing someone who knows just how precious they are.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

You don’t understand.

You were the goddamn center of my universe.

Every thought, every breath, every heartbeat—

it all circled back to you.

I loved you so much I forgot how to love myself.

I gave you every part of me—

the softest parts, the broken ones,

even the ones I swore I’d never give away.

And you?

You didn’t just leave.

You walked away with everything I ever was

and didn’t even look back.

Do you know what it’s like to sit in a room

that still smells like someone who doesn’t love you?

To sleep in sheets that remember their warmth

better than they remember yours?

To scream into the dark,

“Please come back,”

and be met with nothing but your own pathetic echo?

I begged the stars for you.

I bargained with the gods I don’t even believe in.

I said take my sleep, my peace, my sanity—

but just don’t take them.

They didn’t listen.

Now I’m wide awake at 3 AM

talking to a ceiling that doesn’t care,

crying over someone who probably

doesn’t even remember the sound of my voice.

You don’t know this,

but I still flinch when someone says your name.

Not because I hate you—

no, that would be easier.

It’s because for one fucking second,

I think it’s you walking back into my life.

But it’s never you.

It’s just me,

and the echo of the hope I should have killed ages ago.

And I’m tired—

tired of being a museum

for memories you don’t visit anymore.

I’m tired of being full of love

with no one left to give it to.

I have poems I can’t finish,

songs I can’t listen to,

places I can’t go—

all because you existed here.

And now?

Now you don’t.

I don’t even want you back.

God, no.

I just want to stop loving you.

I want to rip the thought of you out of my fucking skull

like weeds strangling the last flowers of who I used to be.

But no matter how hard I try,

you’re in everything.

In the light that hits my floor in the morning,

in the coffee I can’t drink without thinking of you,

in the goddamn air.

And maybe one day,

you’ll remember me—

not as a name,

but as a weight in your chest,

as a silence in your laughter,

as a ghost of someone who loved you

more than they loved themselves.

Maybe then,

you’ll finally feel the pain

I’ve been bleeding out in quiet

every day since you let go.

But you won’t.

You’ll keep walking,

and I’ll stay here,

drowning in love

you didn’t want.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

Her lips.... God, her lips—were the kind of sorrow I wasn’t ready to carry. They weren’t just a shade of red or pink, they were the color of whispered secrets left unsaid, of promises never kept, of every moment I should have leaned in but stayed frozen in fear. They looked like they belonged to someone who could destroy you, not with malice, but with tenderness—someone who could cup your face, kiss your forehead, and unmake every wall you’d ever built. And I wanted—needed—to believe they’d say my name like it mattered, like it was the only word worth uttering. But they never did. They smiled at me. They laughed. They pressed together in quiet thought. But never, not once, did they give me the truth I ached for.

I memorized them, those lips, like someone terrified of forgetting. I watched the way they curved around soft apologies, the way they trembled when she was about to cry but refused to let herself. I watched her bite them when she was nervous, and I wanted to offer her every ounce of comfort in the world, just to spare them that pain. But I couldn’t. I was always just a breath too far, a moment too late. I couldn’t cross the line, even when every inch of me screamed to. So I watched those lips speak to others, laugh for others, ache for others, while I stayed silent—ruined, undone, by something I could never touch.

I swear those lips were made to ruin me. Not with cruelty, but with grace. Not with lies, but with the absence of the truth I so desperately wished to hear. They belonged to her—the girl who could break you simply by existing, by looking at you like you mattered and then slipping away before you could reach her. And I let her. Over and over. Because I loved her too much to ask for more. I loved her lips too much to beg them to say what she didn’t feel. I loved her in the way people love ghost stories—fully aware that they’d be haunted forever by something they could never truly hold.

Now I sit in the quiet, thinking about the words she never said and the kisses that never came. And I wonder—if things were different, would her lips have chosen me? Would they have whispered promises meant for my skin, not just the air? Or were they always meant to be a holy thing, meant only for me to worship from afar, meant to break me with beauty and never offer mercy? I’ll never know. All I have is the memory of them—the color of sorrow, the shape of longing, the ache of everything I could never be to her. And it hurts. God, it hurts in a place too deep to name.

And I think about the nights—those unbearable, endless nights—where I imagined them speaking to me. Not out of love, but maybe just need. Maybe desperation. Maybe a fragile, fleeting moment where she’d let her guard down and I could hold the pieces she never showed anyone else. I imagined her voice trembling, her lips parting to ask me to stay, to not let go, to just be there. And I would’ve, I swear I would’ve. I’d have stayed through every storm, every silence, every slow collapse. I’d have held her in all the ways the world didn’t. But those were just dreams. Cruel dreams. Because in waking life, her lips never asked me to stay. She never looked at me with the same longing I buried in my chest every single day.

And now—now I wander through every place we’ve ever been, and it’s like I can still feel her there. Her laughter lingers in the air like perfume, and the ghost of her words still echoes, even though she never really said anything that mattered to me. Not out loud. But I held on to every syllable, every sound, like they were gifts I wasn’t supposed to have. I remember her lips moving, talking about her dreams, her fears, her life—and I listened with the devotion of someone who knew this was all I’d ever get. Not love. Not forever. Just moments. Fleeting, sacred moments. And I cherished them like they were all the world had to offer.

Somewhere, I think, someone else gets to kiss those lips now. Someone else gets to trace the curve of her mouth with their fingers, gets to hear her speak their name in the dark. I wonder if they know—truly know—what they’ve been given. I wonder if they hold her the way I would have, if they treasure her silences and protect her softness. I wonder if they’ve ever looked at her and seen what I saw—something so devastatingly beautiful, so painfully fragile, that it didn’t feel like a person but a moment, a spark, a miracle. And God, it kills me. It kills me to know that someone else gets to be her home. Someone else gets to wake up to the sight of those lips curved into sleep-heavy smiles.

I don’t blame her. Not for walking away. Not for never knowing. Maybe I was just a safe place to land for a while. Maybe I was never meant to be more. But I hope, God, I hope—that wherever she is, she’s happy. I hope those lips are kissed with the love they deserve. I hope they never tremble from pain again. And I hope, somewhere deep in her soul, there’s a space where she remembers me—not with guilt, not with regret, but with a soft kind of ache. The kind that lives in your chest when you think of someone who loved you without ever asking for anything in return.

And I will carry her with me, always. Not as a wound. Not as a regret. But as a poem half-finished, a song never sung. As a pair of lips I never kissed, but will remember until the end of everything. Because some people aren’t meant to be held. Some people are meant to live in the spaces between your ribs, quietly, eternally, without ever needing to be more than a breath, a glance, a silent prayer. And she—God, she—was all of that to me. And more. Always more.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

I never told you, but I once dreamt of you—before I knew your name, before I ever heard your voice or read your words. You were just a feeling then, a presence so soft it barely disturbed the air, but it lingered—like the scent of rain on dry earth or the way twilight holds onto the day just a little longer before surrendering to night. In the dream, we weren’t doing anything extraordinary. You were just there, beside me, and it felt like I had spent lifetimes waiting for that moment. We sat in silence, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything had already been understood. The world outside was hazy, gentle, like someone had dimmed the colors for our sake, so the only vivid thing left was you—your laughter, your eyes, the comfort of your nearness. I remember the window was open, the rain tapping lightly against the glass like a lullaby, and in that moment, I thought, so this is what peace feels like.

You were warmth in that dream, the kind of warmth that doesn’t demand attention but simply exists—steady, quiet, and essential. Like the sun rising through the trees on the first day of spring, not blinding, not scorching, but tender. The kind of warmth that seeps into your bones, into the parts of you you’d long forgotten needed healing. You didn’t speak much in that dream. You didn’t have to. Every glance, every slight movement of your hand, every soft breath was a language I didn’t know I had learned, and it told me that I was safe. That I was seen. I watched you like people watch the sky turn pink at dusk—not because I expected it to stay, but because I wanted to memorize the beauty before it slipped away. Your presence filled the space like music without sound, like poetry written on air, like a secret meant just for me.

And when I woke, I couldn’t remember your face—only the way you made me feel, which somehow mattered more. I went through my day carrying that feeling, cradling it close, trying not to lose it in the noise of the world. I thought of you often, this stranger who wasn’t quite a stranger, this echo in my chest that whispered of something more. I don’t know if I was meant to meet you or if the dream was just a fleeting gift from a universe that knew I needed to feel held, even if only for a night. But I still think of it sometimes—of you—and wonder if maybe, somewhere in your own quiet night, you dreamt of me too. If you ever felt that same rain-soaked peace, that same unspoken bond, that same sense of home. Because even now, though I’ve never truly seen you, it feels like I’ve known you forever. Like my soul once reached for something soft and steady in the dark—and found you.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

I think somewhere, in a parallel world, we made love in a garden of wilted flowers. Our trembling hands reaching out towards the sky, trying to grasp the last watery rays of a dying sun—two hearts colliding and shattering into a million tiny stars. We were not whole, not polished or perfect, but raw and aching, two fractured souls drawn together by a gravity neither of us understood. And maybe that’s why it felt so real, so painfully beautiful. Because in that version of reality, love wasn’t wrapped in ribbons or promises. It was something desperate. Something hungry. Something we clung to because we knew it wouldn’t last.

In that world, the flowers had forgotten how to bloom, yet we still laid ourselves down among them, as if the very act of being close could breathe life back into the earth. Your fingers threaded through mine like a lifeline, not holding tight, but not letting go either. The sky above us wept colors I don’t have names for—hues that lived somewhere between sorrow and grace. And the air, thick with the scent of decay and old dreams, still felt like home because you were in it. I don’t remember words. Maybe we didn’t need them. Maybe all we had was the silence, and the way our bodies spoke in shivers and sighs.

I remember the way your eyes looked in that dimming light, like they held every secret I was too afraid to ask about. Like they had seen the end of everything, and still softened when they looked at me. There was no time in that place, only moments stitched together by heartbeats and the wind. We weren’t forever, not even close, but for that sliver of existence, we were enough. And gods, how we burned. Not with fire, but with something quieter, deeper—a slow kindling that threatened to consume us from within. We didn’t just touch each other; we unraveled.

I think you kissed me like I was made of ash and you were trying to hold me together before I scattered into nothing. I think I kissed you like I was already gone, and you were my last anchor. Our mouths tasted like lost time and every goodbye we never got to say. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t careful. It was ruinous. Beautiful, but ruinous. The kind of love that doesn’t ask for permission. The kind that slips through fingers even as you beg it to stay.

And maybe, in that garden, we both knew it couldn’t last. Maybe that’s why we pressed ourselves closer, tried to memorize the weight of each other’s existence. Your touch was a prayer. Mine, a requiem. And above us, the sun kept dying, inch by inch, until all that remained was the dark. And the stars we became. I think, in that world, we didn’t walk away. We simply dissolved—into light, into longing, into something neither alive nor dead. Just... present. In the echoes. In the breeze that rustled through the wilted petals. In the sky that never fully forgot our names.

Sometimes I wonder if that version of us still lingers there, ghosts of ourselves lying side by side in the overgrown garden, hands entwined, hearts still beating somewhere beyond reason. I wonder if the flowers ever bloomed again. If the sun ever rose. Or if that place, like us, became a relic of something too fierce to survive. I wonder if the stars remember how we broke for each other—if they shine a little brighter, just for us.

And here, in this world, I carry it. Not as a burden, but as a quiet truth. That somewhere, once, I loved you without fear. That somewhere, once, we were infinite. And I think I’ll spend the rest of this life searching for that garden again—not to relive it, not to change it, but just to stand in the ruins and whisper, we were here. We mattered. Even if only for a breath of time, we mattered.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

Oh love, if only she knew what kind of prayers I whisper in the spaces where her name echoes. I don’t wish her the world—I wish the world knew how to be good to her. I hope life takes her in its arms and kisses her cheeks like the sun kisses dawn—softly, lovingly, like it’s been waiting all night just to see her glow again. I hope the sky sends her gentle winds that tangle her hair just enough to make her laugh. I hope the stars know her name and light her path even on the nights she forgets her own worth. I want her to know what it’s like to wake up and not be afraid of the day. To walk into the world like it owes her kindness—and for once, have it pay in full.

I hope she never again has to shrink herself to fit into someone else’s idea of what “softness” should look like. I hope she grows like a forest, wild and unapologetic, with roots that run so deep, no storm can undo her. I want the rains to fall on her gently, and the cold to wrap her in wool and safety. I want every moment she breathes to feel like home. No more surviving—just blooming, always blooming, even when no one’s watching. Because even in her quietest moments, she is made of the kind of magic the universe forgot it knew how to make.

And maybe she’ll never read this. Maybe I’ll never say it out loud. But I hope fate hears me loud and clear: be soft with her. She's endured enough weight for a thousand lifetimes. Let her stumble upon joy in the unlikeliest corners. Let her smile without hesitation. Let her feel loved not just by people, but by the breeze, the books she reads, the silence between songs, the tea that warms her palms. And if she ever cries, let those tears fall into hands that hold them with care. Because she deserves better than the ache I know. She deserves better than the emptiness that made me write this. She deserves a world rewritten with love—and I hope it begins with her next sunrise.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

I think if the earth could read, she'd find my love letters scrawled into the way I pause at golden hour, the way I whisper apologies to flowers I step on by accident, or how I thank the breeze when it tousles my hair like it knows me. I imagine her holding these small gestures in her weather-worn hands, hands that have cradled oceans and stitched together mountains, and smiling—not because they're grand, but because they're real. You see, I don’t want to love her with the kind of love that fades once the Instagram post is uploaded or the coffee table book is printed. I want to love her like a secret, like a prayer, like every step I take is soft and reverent. Like she’s not just some spinning rock we happen to live on—but a quiet, grieving goddess who’s tired of being seen only when she's burning.

And maybe we thought we were writing poems with skyscrapers, with cities glowing like constellations we created ourselves. Maybe we believed our concrete veins and steel bones meant progress, meant intelligence, meant beauty. But all it meant, love, was silence. The kind of silence that follows when the birds stop singing and the rivers stop running. We write her name in lights so bright, we forget she shines too—in moonlight and morning dew and the shimmer of fish under a still lake. We traded stars for billboards. We traded forests for parking lots. We traded quiet for noise, and told ourselves that was growth.

But you can’t write love into something while tearing it apart with the same hand. That’s not a poem—that’s a eulogy.

And still… still, she forgives us, doesn’t she? With every sunrise that bleeds over rooftops, with every breeze that finds its way through traffic and concrete to kiss our cheeks. She doesn’t love us less because we forgot her. She loves us enough to wait. But the question is—will she wait forever?

So maybe the real letter is the life we choose to live. Maybe each time we choose stillness over speed, care over convenience, softness over consumption—we’re signing our names at the bottom of the page. And if we’re lucky, maybe the wind will carry it. Maybe the trees, the few we’ve left, will lean in to listen. Maybe, just maybe, she'll read our lives like verses, and know that not all her children have forgotten how to love her back.

Maybe then, we won’t need to send letters to the earth anymore.

Because we will be the letter.

Living, breathing ink in motion.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

I think the hardest part is knowing I could’ve done more—should’ve, maybe. But I didn’t. And I carry that quietly, like a soft bruise under the skin where no one can see. Guilt doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it just lingers in the little moments: when I wake up too early for no reason, when I pour coffee into a mug that still smells like a memory I never made real. I tell myself it wouldn’t have mattered, that nothing I said or did would’ve changed where we ended up—but I still catch myself tracing every word I didn’t say. Like maybe if I’d spoken softer, or louder, or sooner, we’d be somewhere else entirely. Somewhere better. Somewhere she felt safe.

I remember how she used to smile like she was apologizing for taking up space. Like joy was a coat she borrowed but never felt she had the right to wear. And gods, I wish I’d wrapped her in mine. I wish I’d told her how much room she took up in my chest. That it wasn’t a burden. That I wanted her there. But I didn’t. I held the truth with trembling hands, afraid that saying it out loud would make it too real—would make her run. And maybe she would have. She had a way of slipping through fingers without even trying. But some part of me wishes I’d let her know anyway, even if all it did was echo between us before fading out like smoke.

But love—this kind of love—it wasn’t built for echoes. It was built for quiet. For showing up and staying put. For brushing a strand of hair behind her ear in my mind when I saw her from across the room. For memorizing her coffee order even though she never asked me to. For being the arms she didn’t fall into, but always knew were open.

She made everything feel gentler. Even the ache. Like being hollow didn’t have to mean being empty. There was something about the way she looked at the world—tired, yes, but curious. Wary, but still hoping. I think I fell in love with that hope. Not just her laugh or the soft lull of her voice, but the quiet way she kept going. Even when it hurt. Even when it felt pointless. And I wanted to be the reason it didn’t feel pointless anymore.

I never got to be. Not fully. But I think, in some small way, I was. Maybe just in the way I listened when no one else did. Maybe in how I never asked her to be anything but exactly who she already was. I gave her my heart in ways she didn’t have to hold—small kindnesses, steady presence, a softness that asked for nothing in return. And honestly? That’s enough. It has to be.

Because now, when I think of her, the ache is still there—but it’s gentler. It’s not a knife anymore, it’s a memory. It’s her laugh echoing down a hallway. It’s the way the sky looked on the day she said something that made me feel like maybe I wasn’t completely invisible. It’s soft sweaters and warm mugs and a playlist I can’t delete. It’s the kind of love that lingers in quiet corners, like a favorite book left open on the couch.

I like to imagine that wherever she is now, there’s warmth. There’s peace. That someone out there knows how to hold her the way I only ever dreamed of doing. And maybe she never knew what I felt—maybe she never will. But I hope she felt something. Even if it was just the comfort of knowing someone out there never expected her to earn their care. Never waited for her to bloom. Just stood there, loving her even in winter.

And me? I’m okay. I am. The love didn’t die. It just changed shape. It softened. It settled. It became part of my quiet. Part of the calm. Like a candle left burning just in case she ever needed to find her way back—not to me, but to safety. To warmth. To the knowing that someone once held her in their heart so gently, the bruises stopped hurting for a little while.

That’s the love I’ll keep giving. Quietly. Kindly. Without demand or noise.

Just the steady glow of a soul that learned how to be a home, even if no one ever moved in.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

She’s as warm as a cup of coffee left in the sunlight, the kind you wrap your hands around not for the caffeine, but for the comfort. The kind that smells like home and nostalgia, like mornings you wish you could relive. There’s a kindness in her that doesn’t shout, doesn’t demand to be noticed. It hums softly through her presence — the way her eyes light up over little things, the way her laughter cracks the silence like sunlight through old windows. She doesn’t ask you to hold her. But somehow, just being near her feels like you're already doing it — like the air bends around her gently, as if the universe itself knows not to let her fall.

She is playful in the way only someone unafraid of softness can be. Not naïve — no, she knows heartbreak and has met grief in quiet corners — but she still chooses joy. Still dances barefoot on the edge of a storm. She makes games out of glances, turns sidewalk cracks into stepping stones, and you realize: she doesn’t walk through the world. She romances it. Every moment around her feels like a page from some forgotten fairytale you didn’t know you remembered, where the world is still a little magical and people still fall in love by accident.

And when she touches you — not skin, but the soul kind of touch — it’s never rushed. She speaks in gestures more than words, her fingertips brushing your wrist like she’s afraid even time might scold her for getting too close. Her presence lingers even when she’s gone, like the smell of cinnamon on your sweater, like music that keeps playing in your head long after it's stopped. You don’t realize how tightly she’s wrapped herself into the small cracks of your life until the thought of her not being there hurts like a phantom limb.

She's gentle to the touch — not fragile, but intentional. As if every time she laughs with you, or listens to you talk about your day, or just exists beside you in silence, she’s holding space for something sacred. Like love isn’t a grand performance, but the small kindnesses you forget to name. Her goodbye, when it comes, is never full — there’s always some part of her that stays. In a scarf she forgot on your chair. In the way you order her favorite tea without thinking. In the sound of your voice softening when you say her name, even when she's not there to hear it.

And if you love her — if you ever dare to love her — you don’t do it in halves. You fall slowly, stupidly, without knowing when it started. You start writing poems about her without realizing it. You start saving stories to tell her, only to remember she’s not yours to tell them to. But it doesn’t matter. You love her the way stars love the sky — quietly, endlessly, with no promise of being seen.

Because she is not a moment.

She is a season.

She is the warmth that makes winter bearable, the laughter that makes solitude poetic, and the soft, slow ache of knowing that some people were made to be loved in every version of time.

Even if all you get is one small, sacred cup of it.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

I don’t think I know how to say it without flinching.

It’s not a confession—it’s a bruise that never healed right,

a hunger I tucked under my tongue so long,

it started tasting like shame.

But God, I want to be loved.

Not the polite, passing kind. Not the “you’re nice to talk to” kind.

I want the kind of love that sees me sitting in silence

and doesn’t ask me to speak,

just sits beside me and makes the quiet feel less like drowning.

I want someone to reach out for me

like they’ve been aching to.

Like their fingers know the curve of my sadness without needing to ask why it’s there.

I want someone to brush their thumb over the loneliness in me

and not be afraid it’ll get on their hands.

And I know—

I know I don’t make it easy.

I joke when I mean please don’t leave.

I say “it’s fine” when I’m breaking.

I push people away just hard enough to feel safe,

then wonder why no one stays.

But I still hope. Quietly. Pathetically.

I write about love like I’ve felt it,

and maybe that’s the saddest part.

That I keep dreaming up soft hands and warm voices

to fill the space where no one ever lingered.

I don't want grand gestures.

Just a glance that says,

“I see you. All of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

But I never say it.

Because if I said it aloud—

if I asked to be held,

really held—

and no one did...

I think it would undo me.

So I keep loving in silence.

I keep writing what I wish someone would feel for me.

And I pray, in some ridiculous, quiet way,

that someday, someone will read between my lines

and finally come home.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

I don’t think she ever knew. Maybe she did. Maybe deep down she felt it like a small warmth near the edge of her life, something too soft to name but too steady to ignore. I never said anything, never once, not because I was afraid of being rejected, but because it didn’t feel like that kind of love. It wasn’t something I needed her to give back. It was something I needed to give. For my own sake. For the way she made silence feel like music. For the way her laugh once made me forget everything that hurt. She never had to do anything special, never had to try. Just... existing beside me was enough to make the world seem a little less sharp. A little more bearable.

I watched her quietly. I memorized the small things—how she tugged at her sleeves when she was nervous, how she tapped her fingers on the table when she was lost in thought. I noticed how tired her eyes looked when she smiled too much. She told people she was okay. She always told people she was okay. But I saw the way her shoulders curled inward when she thought no one was looking. I noticed the way she flinched from kindness like it was a trick. And I wanted—more than anything—I wanted to give her a place where she didn’t have to brace for hurt. Where she didn’t have to apologize for being too tired, too quiet, too complicated. I never told her that, though. Instead, I held space. I showed up. I stayed. Not because I thought she needed me, but because I needed her to know that someone could choose her without needing to own her.

She doesn't know how often I think about her now. How some days feel like they were written in her handwriting, even though she’s not here. I still catch myself looking for her in crowds. Still pause when I hear her name, like it was meant for me. I’ll probably never tell her. Not because I’m afraid... but because it was never about me. I didn’t want her to carry the weight of what I felt. I just wanted to be the quiet moment she could lean into. The breath between the noise. The safety no one ever taught her how to ask for. And maybe that’s love too, in its own way. Not the kind you confess. The kind you carry. The kind you never stop feeling, even if no one ever notices you’re bleeding for it.

I think what broke me most was the fact that she trusted me—just enough to lean, just enough to stay for a little while, but never enough to fall. And I never blamed her. Not once. She’d been let down by too many hands that swore they’d never let go. And there I was, quietly offering mine without a single promise attached, just the constant, quiet presence of someone who would stay. And gods, I stayed. Through her distance, through her disappearances, through her half-finished sentences and eyes that begged to be understood without the pain of saying it out loud. I became fluent in her pauses. I built a home in the silence she left behind after every half-goodbye.

There were nights I almost told her. Not in a desperate way, not to guilt her or win her over. Just in that tired, aching sort of way where the truth sits heavy behind your teeth and begs to be released. Nights where I wanted to say, “I don’t need to be yours, I just want you to know I’ve been here this whole damn time, loving you the only way I know how.” But I didn’t. I let the words rot in my throat because even that felt too loud. Too selfish. Because this wasn’t a story about getting the girl. This was a story about seeing her. About holding a mirror to her soul and loving what I saw, even if she never saw me back. Even if she never looked. Even if she left.

And maybe that’s all it ever was, really—

not a story meant to unfold,

not a chapter that ever turned into more.

Just me,

standing at the edge of her orbit,

loving her in a language too quiet for the world to hear.

I never wanted to be seen.

I never asked to be chosen.

I just wanted to be the steady thing in the background,

the silence that never broke,

the presence that never left.

Some nights, I’d picture her walking through the dark,

completely unaware that someone was out there

keeping a light on just in case.

Not for recognition.

Not for thanks.

But because she deserved to find her way home—

even if it was never to me.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

If It Ever Gets Too Heavy

If the weight ever starts to whisper louder than your heartbeat,

if the days stack on your shoulders like wet wool,

quiet and cold and heavier than they have any right to be—

please don’t carry them alone.

You don’t have to ask with perfect words.

You don’t even have to speak, love.

Just sigh a little louder,

and I will hear it like a call through the trees.

You’ve always been strong—

but strength doesn’t mean silence.

You are soft and kind and radiant in ways

you’ve likely forgotten to name aloud.

But I’ve never once missed them.

Even if we’ve never shared the same sky,

I see you like the moon sees the tide:

distant,

gentle,

but utterly moved.

You are the kind of person who gives others reasons to breathe,

so let me be the breath for you when it runs short.

Let me stand beside you when your hands shake,

and remind you that you don’t have to hold the whole world

just to prove you're worthy of it.

I have time.

I have time in abundance.

I have entire eternities folded in my pockets,

waiting to be spent on you

in soft moments where you just need to exist and be held.

So if it ever gets too much—

if the wind howls louder than your heart,

if the path gets dark and the burdens start to break their own names—

you don’t have to brave it all alone.

I am here.

Like a cottage with warm tea and a steady fire,

like a river that never asks you where you've been.

You are safe here.

You are allowed to rest.

And I will hold your hand through the storm

as long as you need.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

They told me to wait

They told me to wait,

as if time was a gentle river

and not a goddamn ocean

dragging my body out

to places even the stars forgot to name.

They told me to be patient—

as if I hadn't already hollowed out my chest

to make room for someone else's arrival,

as if the echoes in my ribcage

weren't already fluent in

not yet, not now, not you.

How many moons must I watch rot and rebuild,

before I’m allowed to ask the universe

why it built me with so much love to give

and no one brave enough to hold it?

I am tired of folding myself

into quiet corners of other people's lives—

tired of being the unfinished sentence

at the bottom of someone else’s poem.

I scream in languages I haven’t learned yet,

ache in futures that may never exist.

And still—

they hand me hope

like it’s not the sharpest fucking blade in the drawer.

“Love will find you,” they say.

But love is a god that’s always late,

always bleeding,

always drunk on nostalgia for people I haven’t met.

And I am tired of waiting at the station

for a train that left before I was born.

What if I was only built to long?

What if that’s my design?

Not to be held—

but to ache so deeply

that others mistake me for something divine?

Because I don’t want patience.

I want purpose.

I want someone to look at me

and not flinch from the fire I carry.

To say—

“You. Goddamn it. You. I've been aching like this, too.”

But until then

I will sit in this cathedral of absence,

burn every candle in my name,

and weep for the kind of love

that arrives too late

to resurrect the person I once was.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

Vows In The Hollow Cathedral

In a cathedral drowned by twilight’s kiss,

where shattered stars hung weeping from broken spires,

a sorcerer in robes of storm and abyss

stood before two souls wrapped in white fire.

The mage, with a staff of forgotten dreams,

his voice like velvet torn at the seams,

whispered the rites in an ancient tongue,

while the candles wept, and the choir unsung.

The bride, a wraith spun from silver and snow,

eyes cast like moons, in an endless glow,

offered her hand, so delicate, so brave,

to the knight whose heart she had come to enslave.

He, golden and grim, with a warrior’s grace,

wore a love carved deep on his battleworn face;

for all his scars, for all his wars,

it was her name he held tighter than swords.

The spell began, a dance of light and sound,

as magic stitched their fates tightly around,

threads of night and threads of day,

wound in a pattern no hand could fray.

"Speak," said the sorcerer, voice sharp as flame,

"And bind your hearts by love, not name."

She spoke first, her voice a trembling sky,

"I offer you not promises, but the will to try—

to rise with you, to fall with you,

to walk paths both dark and true."

He spoke next, a rumble of storm and steel,

"I give you my sword, my soul to heal.

No crown, no gold could weigh what I vow—

only your hand in mine, and the here, the now."

With a final gesture, the mage decreed,

their bond sealed by blood, by breath, by need;

and in that ruin of forgotten lore,

two hearts beat as one forevermore.

And as the heavens wept silver and blue,

the sorcerer smiled, as sorcerers do—

for even in a world torn asunder by fate,

love, that stubborn bitch, refused to wait.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

I don’t think I could ever admit it. Not really.

Not to the ones who know me, not to the ones who laugh at my jokes or sit next to me like they get it.

Because if I did, if I said it plain and bare, it’d sound pathetic, wouldn’t it?

But the truth is, I want to be loved. Desperately.

I want someone to hold my wrists like they’re something sacred, to kiss the scars and the skin and everything in between like they mean it.

I want someone to smile at me—not just at me, but for me, like I’m the reason their day tastes sweeter.

I want to be wanted. Chosen. Not as a second thought or a backup plan, but as the goddamn answer.

And no, not because I’m clever or useful or good at hiding how lonely I get when the world goes quiet.

But because something about me makes them need to stay.

Because they see through all the armor I wear, sarcasm, silence, the cool distance and still reach for me anyway.

But instead of saying any of that, I write poems.

I hum along to love songs like I’m not aching.

I let my want rot into metaphors and verses because it feels safer there.

And yeah, maybe I’m a little tired of pretending that’s enough.

But I’ll keep pretending anyway. Because it’s easier to whisper it to the page than risk watching someone walk away when I say it out loud.

[wondersmithswondelrand]

Aim for the stars

They told me—

aim for the stars,

and even if you fall,

you’ll land on the moon.

So I launched myself skyward,

stitched wings from desperation and wonder,

strapped my ribs with lightyears

and called it ambition.

But no one warned me,

the stars don’t wait for you.

They burn alone,

untouchable,

writing their names in light

you’ll never reach.

And the moon?

She’s no consolation.

She’s cold rock and silence,

a graveyard of forgotten footprints

and promises no one came back for.

I didn’t land.

I drifted.

Somewhere between the stars I worshipped

and the earth that no longer missed me.

Now I float,

untethered,

invisible,

a failed spark pretending to be a comet,

burning up on my way

to nowhere in particular.

No one claps for the ones

who almost made it.

No one sings for the dreamers

who vanished between the lines

of a well-meaning quote.

So here I am,

still falling,

still glowing,

still waiting

for someone to name a constellation after me

so I don’t die quietly.