Slow.
Entangling.
Rot wears the face of patience.
Silence gathered like rust.
Endurance cracked quietly.
Decay entered silently and made itself a home.
Dust fell into every sacred thing.
The ashtray overflowed beside untouched flowers.
The garden party continued.
Birthdays,
rolling in faster every year,
dragging their long shadows behind them.
Something terrible
always circles back.
The innocence fled early,
left me sleepless
in a cold room of memories turned nightmares.
I still hear younger laughter
through half-lit hallways, like ghosts through another house—
sugar-stained fingers, small hands,
bright candles,
warm lights in winter windows.
The world untouched by dread.
Time bruises in unknowing ways.
Memory decays softly.
Now I grow flowers alone,
watering them with versions of myself I no longer recognize.
No candles to burn.
Only silence waiting in the walls.
Getting older
feels like watching winter
move into the bones.
I spent years
waiting for grief
to come roaring back through the door.
Instead it learned to sit beside me.
Never gone,
only softer now,
lingering like an old friend waiting across the table.
The years no longer howl
like they used to.
Light returns slowly,
through the kitchen windows,
laying gold across unwashed dishes
and half-watered plants.
Half-warm coffee.
Rain against the garden.
The cat asleep nearby.
My name resting safely in my own hands.
The light asks nothing of me.
There are still nights
where memory returns like weather,
slow thunder in the bones,
old wounds opening their tired mouths—
but it passes.
I no longer confuse peace with emptiness.
No one tells you,
how strange it feels
when your life finally stops hurting.
How silence itself
can make you weep.
Some wounds never vanish.
They simply loosen their grip.
The world grows around it.
Now the winters arrive gently.
Not as punishment—
just another season passing through.
I am made of bone
and a restless mind.
Coffee gone cold.
Cigarette to ash.
Watching the world
pass
without me.
I got too good at goodbyes.
Left pieces of myself
in every one.
Something in me
didn’t survive them.
Now I find my own way
through what’s left of me.
I take my intrusive thoughts
out for walks—
like they belong to me.
They don’t leave.
They don’t quiet.
I try to sleep them off,
but they follow me there too.
Every night,
the same loop—
no exit.
On my last breath,
I begged the night for a saviour—
but the darkness stayed quiet.
No one came.
The cold laid the truth bare:
in the chaos, in the ruins,
no one is coming
to pull you from your wreckage.
Your salvation is yours.
You save yourself—
or don’t rise.
Regrowth is not gentle.
I died at midnight—
A slow bleed,
crying spells,
fractures beneath the surface.
Learning to grow
in the soil of last year’s failures—
they are lessons,
not a death sentence.
I shed the stories that kept me small,
shut the doors that fed the dark.
I make peace with sunlight,
and the quiet pull of moonlit nights.
I embrace the changes—
soft,
loud,
necessary.
I hold the tender moments.
I love—despite the madness.
Revival.
As thunder cracks and the heavens break
We are pulled back into each other’s storm,
Drawn by a tether neither of us can name.
Our cords run deep.
We search for the centre calm – the fragile quiet buried beneath all this noise.
For the home of belonging in each other’s heart.
Chaos surrounds us, chaos tests us,
Thunder pressing its questions hard against our ribs.
Yet in the wreckage, we reach for each other first.
Searching, finding each other
In the stars,
In the dark of the night,
In the rain and the cold,
And in the last flicker of the flame.
Always returning, always pulled back in.
Hold my hand and let it rain,
You are mine –
through every storm,
in every lifetime that finds us again.
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