I spent that wednesday evening standing by the river, watching the light die. Hands in my pockets and waited for your final words hoping for honesty, or at least a reason for the silence between us. It sat heavy between our shoulders, a quiet language we both understood but couldn't bring ourselves to speak aloud. Even standing so close, the distance was suffocating as if we were already mourning each other in real time. We were just kids back then, reckless and untamed, clinging to a love we didn't even have the language to name. It was messy, blurred around the edges and entirely out of our control—we'll never be those kids again. We didn't fear the world, nor the fallout of our own heartbreaks. Years passed and you carried that longing into another love, leaving me to piece together what was left. I started searching for that love in everything we once touched—in the stillness of the river, the rustle of the trees, the gold of the afternoon sun, and every quiet corner where we used to run free without a single care. I looked for us in the universe we built before we grew up and learned how to hurt. I must have imagined you always there, woven into the quiet like a distant deity. Every word I spoke to you was just a prayer left on your altar. I look down at the same current that watched us cross from one year to the next. It flows on, indifferent to the fact that you did not make it across with me. I realized the world carries on without pausing for broken things. The streetlights will still turn on one by one, the city will keep breathing its heavy evening air, and people will walk past this bank without ever knowing that a whole universe collapsed right where I’m standing. I used to trace your quietness like a map, looking for hidden paths that might lead me back to you. But some doors are built only to be closed, and some hands were only meant to hold us for a season. I am learning to forgive the empty spaces between my fingers, learning to let the cold wind belong to me again, without searching for your warmth inside it.

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i hold my ear open to heaven

it is said "ask and you shall receive"

the ringing returns and i call His name

i pray your soul out of my memory

yet it sticks

like the cicada's shell on a tree

even stronger like ink on paper

i wait for the day i might receive it

like a lonely wife awaiting a soldier's embrace

i am afraid i may see the holy light

before i am relieved of your grasp

/////

my sleep threatens me

my sleep threatens me with these dreams

i will see you like an angel

you assure me i am graced

you look too real to stare at

you feel too real to trust

but as soon as i believe your lips and fingers

we are laying

and then in my own bed

and then you fade

and i come to

and remember every detail of your death

all over again

i pray myself back to sleep

and know it will all happen again

/////

light in your voice

when we were younger

you told me over and over

that you would be this way forever

and i would always live

and ever since that moment

the months started counting each season

and the seasons started counting each year

and to this day

i think of the light in your voice that summer

and the warmth in your face

when you told me that

but you could not have been more wrong,

and i could not have been more changed—

by the time i spent hoping you were right,

and knowing i was stuck this way.

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While humming my song in a quiet whisper

You asked me for its name

Its name was on the tip of my tongue

Until I realized

You would find it silly

And you never knew it was written and composed by me.

Because I know

You always find all the ways of love crazy and hopeless.

Because I know

When you read those poems, you think they are of no importance.

Because I know

When the sun shines through your window, you think it is just the sun

While all I see is life once again—

Where I can live

as I wish.

Because I know

When a cold breeze touches you

You think it is just winter

While to me... it is a wish come true.

Because I know

Silence to you is just absence of sound

While to me... it is full of everything I never said.

Because I know

You will always think it is just a song

While it was... everything you never knew about me.

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Saw you in my dream last night,

I wish it would never end.

Keeping my eyes closed,

because I hate watching you fade.

Now the sun is bleeding through the blinds,

stealing what was left of us.

In the dark,

we had no moments to erase,

no unsaid words hanging between us.

Just two shadows learning how to stay,

before reality remembers who we are.

i still.

i still find my way back to you,

but at the same time, i'm not

waiting for you anymore.

i still wander back to our place,

the garden when we were playing under the tree

when i wrote our initials on it,

and you didn't realize it.

when our knees were touching under the table,

it felt like you touching my soul.

even now, the echo of your laughter still rings in my ears,

whenever you tried to make me lose in that game.

and you really did.

but i just..

wanted you to know

but you don't.

i wanted you to know that i need you,

that i love you.

the wind still brushes past those trees,

leaving my ghost to wander in the garden.

but i don't wait for your return;

it's just that my hands still remember the way.

i trace the initials you never saw,

loving the version of you

that now only belongs to my memory.

but those words remain trapped,

beneath the table, under the tree,

carved only in the bark,

and in the silent spaces of my heart.

our initials will fade with the rain,

the tree will grow, and seasons will change,

yet in every breeze, a quiet echo stays,

of the words we left unspoken in those summer days.

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And strip away the illusions we used to weave.

You once said 'forever and beyond',

But is this the eternity you meant?

A kingdom of ashes, so bitter and cold,

Where every sweet promise is broken and spent.

We built an empire on shifting white sands,

Only for you to destroy it with iron hands.

Look at the wreckage, the ruins, the rust—

How easily 'forever' turns into dust.

If this is the end of the vows that we made,

Then let the cold silver erase every trace.

I’ll stand in the dark at the edge of your blade,

Looking for love in a merciless place.

So strike through the heart that you swore you would save,

And leave our 'forever' to rot in the grave.

Don't hesitate now, don't look in my eyes,

For they only reflect your beautiful lies.

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i have always felt the need to seek movies and books that will make me cry my eyes out-

i seek for something so tragic just so i could feel the screaming exhaustion i cannot get rid of.

it's almost pathetic, how i bargain with stories asking them to hurt me in ways life already does.

it's strange, really, how i'd rather borrow someone else's heartbreak than sit alone with my own.

at least in fiction, the pain knows how to bow out gracefully.

it comes with background music, well-lit scenes,

and the decency to let you breathe when the chapter ends.

real life doesn't. it just sits there, breathing beside you

like an unwelcome guest you can't ask to leave

i think i learned this habit when i was little.

back then, i didn't know what to call the heaviness, only that it liked to follow me everywhere.

i would see it in the way sunlight failed to make my room feel warm,

in the way i'd stare at the ceiling and feel like i was falling

even though i was lying perfectly still.

i thought maybe everyone had something like it-an invisible weight that made their footsteps slower.

i wondered if other kids had nights when they couldn't

sleep because their chest felt too crowded

now i'm older, but the heaviness hasn't left.

it's quieter, yes, but it's still here-

tucked behind my ribs, patient as ever.

and so i keep chasing sad stories.

i cry for people who never existed,

for losses inever truly lived through.

i let their grief soak into me because

it's easier to fall apart for someone else than

to admit my own pieces have been loose for years.

maybe this is the only way i know how to feel without drowning-

by standing at the edge of someone else's ocean,

letting the waves touch my feet but never pull me under.

sometimes i think about what it would

be like if one day i didn't need to do this.

if i could watch something happy without

feeling the itch for tragedy. if i could trust joy to stay.

but until then, i will keep turning pages,

keep pressing play, keep finding ways to let the sadness in-

because at least this kind of sadness knows how to leave when i tell it to.

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your mind and heart and eyes all at once

you poured out your blood into my hands

and held my fate in yours like God

and dropped your head and stood still

nothing direct but your truth rung out

like the owl’s noise at dusk

like the church’s steeple at the hour

your words ring back and forth in my head

out my ears and back in as i breathe

thank you for reading my article i hope y'all like it

tami ꒰ა♡໒꒱

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i keep writing about love like i've lived it fully— but the truth is,

i've only ever watched it leave.

i don't know how i got this good at describing love.

maybe because i've only ever seen it from

the outside— like a stranger peeking in on others' point of view of love.

warm, soft, full of sweet

nothings like it was something raw and real.

i write about the way someone's eyes soften when they say your name.

about late night drives, sleepy goodbyes,

and forehead kisses that feel like promises.

i write like 𝑖’𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟ℎ𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑚 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒’𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡.

but is it real?

i've yet to feel the pulse of someone who would love me, whole, and fully held.

i romanticize love like it held me.

like it chose me. like it knew my name.

but everything i know of

love— i've only read about it, watched it,

dreamed it. worse is, it's what was left behind for

me. because even when love arrived, it never

stayed, it only ever lingered.

it was never even mine to begin with.

maybe that's why my writing bleeds so much.

because it's the only way i get to hold it, just for once.

i keep writing about love like i've lived it—

maybe that's because, in some way,

i have. even if it never stayed.

will it ever?

tami ꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱

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Cowpoke - Isaiah Sheffield

I will tell myself that i have no summer

Because i know the summer used to be ours

And i will tell myself that the sun

Doesn't exist

And it's hide from it's touch

Because I know we used to share it's warmth

I will tell myself that 𝑖 𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢…

It's January

And i’m cold

And i have never 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢…

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I bleed poems

And your knife

Is my muse

Every time you cut me deep

I turn you into a memorable

Words.

tami ꒰ა♡໒꒱

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i used to be scared of the dark, of ghosts,

and of any possible monsters beneath my bed—until, i wasn't.

until the dark became strangely comforting,

and the ghosts began to feel like company.

i never saw anything in the dark, it was all silence.

swallowed silence that made everything feel numb.

until the next day i couldn't figure out why there were scratches.

thin lines against the wall, carved like they were meant to just exist there.

i tried tracing the scratches, repainting them over and over again,

thinking that once i got rid of them, they would stop haunting me

at night. but they never washed off. instead, they rattled—every night—leading me back to the one thing i couldn't confront:

the monsters beneath my bed.

turns out, the monsters were never really beneath my bed.

they were living in me. they lived in the things i couldn't say.

they hid in the corners of my thoughts—in my self-defined agony.

i stopped looking under the bed

i already know where the monsters sleep.

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tami ꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱

perhaps i'm a dead poet, whose words tarnished by grief alongside death, who writes with blood-stained ink down beneath the void within her crooked heart

or perhaps i'm no one but a lost soul whose got nothing but her explicit madness, tired pen, and crumpled papers. writing pieces of her ail mind to appease the messy details of her existence.

or was it teenage rage?

clogged along the valleys of her forgotten innocence that made every existing wounds to sting—but i once was a child, not a dead poet nor a lost soul,

i was a CHILD.

until he began puncturing needles of grown up rage, his words veiled in madness, and his stabbing silence.

i was a child, once his daughter, until i became pieces of himself.

a messed up, enraged poet who died to haunt him down with words of my unspoken grief.

he is what he did, and maybe i am what he's made. after all, i am my father's rage.

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tami ꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱

We're meant to meet, to make memories

I made your days, you made my nights

And sometimes we switch roles

Round and round

Again and again

Like an everlasting loop, until we end it

We're meant to meet, to make memories

We never had a proper ending, didn't we?

We didn't take that chance to look back at each other for the last time

That day when we decided to go separate ways

It's been a while now

I still haven't stopped thinking about you entirely

As if you never really left

There's a piece of you..

that still runs wild in my mind

There's a part of you that remains in me.

thank you for reading my first article i hope y'all like it, and don't forget to follow me!

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 tami ⊹☽₊⟡⋆

when you both have empathy and apathy

living quietly in your ribcage,

it stings as sharp as nerve-affected wounds--deep, yet you can't feel most of it

it's like housing two ghosts that never speak to each other, but both keep you awake at night. one whispers every ache of the world into your chest, the other tells you it doesn't matter, and you sit there, listening to both, uansure which one is just.

you walk around with a heart that feels too heavy for its own bones, yet too hollow for its own skin. you learn to cradle contradictions: how you can grieve and still be numb, how you can love and still be di how you can wish to live and still carry the thought of vanishing.

it's a strange cycle—an exhaustion that doesn't look like tired eyes but feels like an entire body sagging from within.

sometimes you wonder if people notice it, the way your smile is both tender and absent,

the way your silences are filled with too many thoughts

but also nothing at all. it's not easy to explain.

how do you tell someone you're hurting when half the time,

you can't even tell if you're in pain?

there are nights when you want to pour yourself into someone's palms

let them hold you until you remember what warmth feels like.

but then there are mornings when even the thought of being seen

feels unbearable, like light on skin that hasn't known sun in years.

and maybe that's the hardest truth i'll live with—

that i am made of contradictions that no one can fully hold.

that i am stitched together by both ache and absence.

that i exist in this fragile in-between, never fully drowning, never fully breathing.

is this what it means to be alive—aching and absent, all at once?

thank you for reading my first article i hope y'all like it, and don't forget to follow meee

tami ꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱