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You are somewhere where the ocean glows,
Where the salt wind dances and the warm tide flows.
I’m barefoot dancing across kitchen tiles,
Counting down the days but not the miles.

You’ve got palm trees leaning with the breeze,
Coconut shadows and endless seas.
I’ve got golden skies and a suitcase packed,
A little bit of summer tucked in my backpack.

You’ll find magic underneath the lights,
Castle dreams and fireworks at night.
I’ll find mountains painted green and gold,
Stories in streets that are centuries old.

We’re chasing summers, running wherever daylight goes,
You’re following waves, I’m following roads.
A thousand little moments, a thousand things to do,
And I’ll save all my favourite ones to tell back to you.

And isn’t it lovely, the world so wide,
With oceans between us, and miles to stride?
Yet every morning, wherever we are,
We’re waking beneath the same bright star.

So take your pictures, collect your views,
Bring home stories and skies of blue.
I’ll bring back sunsets, songs from the road,
Little pieces from the places I go.

We’ll meet in September with sun-kissed skin,
A thousand adventures tucked underneath our grin.
You’ll tell your stories, I’ll tell mine,
Two little summers that somehow align.

I have been wondering lately,
Of things I cannot seem to know,
Why every seed must split itself,
Before it ever starts to grow.

How the sun that wakes the morning flower,
Will watch its colours fade away.
How the rain that feeds the roots below,
Can wash the soil that made them stay.

How the hand that holds a candle,
Must still surrender it to the night.
How the stars that guide the traveller,
Must disappear before the light.

For what must a fish believe of water,
That carries it from birth to end?
The same clear depths that let it breathe,
Will watch its final moments descend.

The ocean was its first true home,
The only world it ever knew,
Yet still the water that kept it alive,
Becomes the water it is cooked into.

And they say a fish that keeps its mouth shut,
Will never meet the waiting hook.
That silence is the safest road,
And wisdom is the choice it took.

But tell me, is it wiser then to never speak, to never fight?
Or does the fish that fears the line, still lose to something out of sight?

And maybe I am wrong to ask,
Or maybe asking is the cost.
For every soul that seeks the truth,
Must first accept how much is lost.

So if the cradle holds the grave
And mercy carries the pain along,
If all that teaches us to live
Must teach us where we don’t belong…

Then tell me, was the world made strange?
Or have we simply lost the sight,
To understand why everything that gives us breath
Can also take our light?

Winter asked us to stand close enough to keep each other warm,
To find a little shelter from the weight of every storm.
The nights were long and endless, but I never feared the dark,
Because your hands were always there, a place to find my heart.

You knew the words that saved me, knew the battles I had faced,
You stood beside the shadows when I thought I’d lost my place.
I never had to wonder if you saw the things I couldn’t say,
Because somehow you made the hardest nights feel softer anyway.

Before the year had opened, before the skies turned blue,
Before the first of January taught me, I could lose you.
Before the days got longer, before the seasons changed their tune,
I swear the world was softer underneath that winter moon.

Then midnight came so quietly, no warning in the air,
No thunder splitting open skies, no signs we would change that year.
Just little things grew distant, little words left unsaid,
Until the warmth we used to share became a memory instead.

I’ve watched the daylight grow, the evenings stretching wide,
Funny how the world expands while something fades inside.
Fields grow wider every week, rivers run their course,
Everything is finding somewhere, everything except my thoughts.

Summer came with open windows, with a warmth I couldn’t hold,
With flowers reaching for the sun and leaving me out in the cold.
The trees have learnt to let go, the birds have learnt to fly,
And I keep searching for the winter written somewhere in the sky.

I don’t want to keep reminding you of wounds you cannot see,
Or turn every quiet moment into asking you to rescue me.
I know the storm has passed us, I know the rain has dried,
But some things cast a shadow even when they’ve moved aside.

I don’t need you to fix the winter, or undo the months between,
I only wish you missed the warmth of everything we’d once been.
Because summer keeps on blooming, and the world keeps moving on,
But I’m still holding onto winter, wondering where we went wrong.

Orchid child with velvet skin,
Where lilac light comes drifting in,
So soft it feels like borrowed air,
As if it knows to handle with care.

She stands where morning falls too wide,
With nowhere gentle left to hide,
As though the day was never meant,
For something made so delicate.

Why was she placed where breezes roam,
In air that does not feel like home?
Where every passing, carless part,
Can settle soft yet leave a mark?

An orchid blooms in shaded glass,
Where filtered hours drift and pass,
It leans from light it cannot hold,
Too pale for heat, too fine for cold.

Its petals bruise at slightest change,
From touch too near, from air too strange.
It drinks from quiet, measured rain,
And turns away from weight and strain.

So she, alike, in silence grown,
Takes the world too sharply known.
Each moment pressing, faint but deep,
In hues her fragile form will keep.

Why shape a thing so finely made,
To wander bright, unyielding shade,
Where even light, in golden streams,
Can feel too much for tender things?

Why give her skin that answers so,
To every shift it comes to know,
That even time, in passing by,
Can leave its trace and not say why?

Is there a place where she might be,
Untouched by quiet injury?
Or must she bloom, though trembling still,
In ways the world cannot make still?

An orchid kept from harsher skies
Still folds beneath too-watchful eyes.
Orchid child with velvet skin,
Still lets the lilac light drift in.

Don’t pretend you don’t hear me, don’t pretend you don’t see,
I’m right where you left me, exactly where I said I’d be.
In the quiet you bury, in the corners you keep,
I’ve been tracing your breathing while you’re trying to sleep.

You can soften your focus, you can blur what you need,
But I’m patient, in case you forgot. I never leave.

Just open your eyes now, I don’t want to repeat.
Just open your eyes, I’m too close to retreat.
Just open your eyes, before I complete.

So, I’ll count to three.

One-

You remember how gently I would settle your mind,
How I stayed in the background, never crossing the line,
How I moved like a whisper you could take or refuse?
I was something you wanted, something safe you could use.

You leaned a little closer, I learned where you creep,
Now I live in the silence underneath what you keep.

Say you’re done,
I’ve already won

Two-

Now I’m closer, feel me in your chest?
Every thought bends around me, I don’t need to suggest.
Fight, deny, try to hold to what’s true,
But the pull feels familiar, and it’s me coming back for you.

Every step you take forward, I’m still under your skin,
every “no” that you say is where I’ve already been.
You can name it, you can frame it like it’s something you lose,
but I’m stitched in the silence you refuse to refuse.

Keep resisting, fight to stay clean,
But you don’t even know what that truly means.

Just give up and give in,
You can’t fight what’s within.

Three-

Now listen.

Don’t stall me.
Don’t try.

You can feel it, right?
You already know why.

No distance.
No lie.

You don’t leave.
You comply.

Too slow.
Too late.
That’s me.
That’s fate.

Still reaching?
Still sure?
Still thinking you’re more?

Stop.
That’s cute.
But it’s too late to undo what I’ve rooted in you.
Too deep to pretend you’re anything new.

I don’t leave when you fight me, when you swear I won’t stay,
I don’t leave when you’re sleeping, I don’t leave when you pray.

Don’t pretend you don’t hear me, don’t pretend you don’t see,
You were never getting away, never going to be free.

The moon drifts high, a silver queen in endless skies,
Its light a gentle promise to all lovers below,
Yet every glimmer we admire, every tender sigh,
Depends on the shadowed night where only darkness grows.

We speak of her as if she rises solely for human eyes,
As if her glow exists to mirror longing in our chest,
But every tender shimmer owes its grace to shadowed skies,
For without the velvet black, her light could never manifest.

Romance paints her face in stories whispered soft and low,
We crown her queen of hearts, of dreams, of secret, aching schemes,
Yet every silver thread we chase is spun where darkness flows,
Her brilliance born of night, not merely moonlights gleam.

We watch her arc above the world in silence and in awe,
And trace the gentle curves that seem to know our quiet pain,
But only in the darkened hours does her light obey the law,
That without the night to hold her, all her beauty would be vain.

So, when we lift our eyes and sigh at every silver thread,
Remember that her glow is forged in shadow, soft and deep,
The moon would not exist without the darkness overhead,
And even in our hearts, true light is sown where shadows sleep.

Five things we can see, five things to know,
The door, the window, the shadow’s soft glow.
The light that shivers and winks in the room,
The space between laughter, a crack full of gloom.

Look closer, look closer, there’s nothing to miss,
Each corner holds whispers, each shadow a hiss.

Four things we can feel, four things that remain,
Fabric against skin, the chair and its strain.
Fingernails pressing in rhythm and time,
The pulse of a heart that will not yet chime.

Keep it steady, keep it known,
Count it softly, in a careful tone

Three things we can hear, three things that stay,
Breath in the silence, clocks marking the day.
Voices that fold, twist, and bend,
Notes that arrive before they end.

Listen, listen, the shift is near,
The almost, the maybe, the thing to fear.

Two things we can smell, two things that lie,
Dust in the radiator, something gone dry.
Something faint burning, or almost a flame,
Almost is warning, almost is name.

One thing we can taste, sharp and complete,
Metal on the tongue, bitter and sweet.
Proof that we’re living, proof that we see,
Proof of our own fragile decree.

Small is safe, still is wise,
Prepared is protection beneath open skies,
Count it again, breathe it slow,
Let the numbers guide you, let the shadows go.

A tree falls in a forest, but no one’s around,
So follows the question: does it make a sound?
Or does stillness blanket where the echo should be,
Unheard, unmade, like thoughts lost at sea?

If air never trembles inside of a mind,
Is motion still motion, or something confined?
Does the bark split loudly, or quietly break,
If ears are the only translators we make?

And what of the moment before it descends?
Does the fall even start if it never quite ends?
If time isn’t witness, does it even pass,
Or pool in the roots and sleep under grass?

Perhaps it rises, inverted through air,
Breaking the world in ways no eye can bear.

Or maybe it waits in a permanent poise,
Suspended between the absence of noise.

Does nothing bear witness more purely than we,
Who clutter the quiet with certainty?

Suppose I am there, yet forget I exist,
Can memory hold me, or fade to a mist?
If I hear it later, replayed in my head,
Was the silence alive, or the echo just dead?

So I ask, and the question unravels the ground:
Is it sound that needs ears, or ears that need sound?
And which of them breaks when the other is gone,
The tree, or the thought we were standing upon?