midnight poesy

 To every friend I have met beneath different skies, to the ones who arrived briefly and still left fingerprints on who I was becoming, this is for you. But especially for the ones who knew me before I had an identity of my own. To those I have known for more than a decade, we grew inside the same corridors, our laughter ricocheting off classroom walls, our names written into checklists and carved quietly into one another’s memories. We saw each other unguarded, not only in the ordinary, deeply embarrassing ways of growing up side by side, but in the moments when life stripped us of every practiced version of ourselves. We knew the bodies that carried no shame, the faces swollen from crying, the secrets whispered between bathroom stalls, the disasters, or “matters,” as we called them, that we swore were the end of the world and later laughed about until our stomachs hurt. We lived through things that should have scattered us. Instead, we made inside jokes from the silliest, strange...

Eighteen was a borrowed coat, stitched from expectations too large for my shoulders, yet I wore it, through every season anyway. Its pockets grew heavy. With test papers creased at the edges. With sleepless mornings that smelled of burnt coffee. With names I no longer can take. With dreams, reduced to ash, that still managed to stain my fingertips. I learned to measure time not by sunsets,but By deadlines. By countdowns. By the distance between one breakdown and the next. The sun became a stranger who only knew me through my bedroom window. I mistook survival for ambition. Silence for healing. Exhaustion for something to be proud of. Entire versions of me left quietly. Some wearing someone else's goodbye. Some swallowed by grief. Some simply dissolved, because one heart cannot house every person it has ever been. Yet spring kept arriving. Not loudly. Just enough green forcing itself through cracked concrete. Just enough light to remind the sky it had not forgotten its own colour. A...

 what makes us believe?  when belief itself feels like betrayal? not evidence-- but a quiet certainty enveloped beneath doubt a reflex of our conscious reaching for a steady stance even when the ground is missing. hope never does arrive loudly all its adjectives are quiet lingering latent uninvited it disguises itself as patience as working without reason its like the gentle cruelty of maybe calling it faith is wrong, afterall its just anticipation wearing borrowed confidence a future i imagine just enough to get through my present therefore contrary to actual belief, we keep believing, not because its true, but because without it, we disappear. not because its true, but because truth alone cannot hold us. not because its true but because surviving demands a little fiction. not because its true, but because letting go costs more than believing.                                       ...

like fireworks that fizzle out, we bloom loud against the dark, convinced the sky is listening, convinced this light is permanent. but the night never keeps souvenirs. we rise from soil with borrowed names, call it purpose, call it fate, stack our days like they won’t collapse, repeat the same motions until repetition feels like meaning. everything circles back. roots to bone, bone to dust, dust pretending it was never alive. love feels infinite until it isn’t. empires feel solid until they crack quietly, one grain at a time. we loop— wake, want, work, wait— polishing routines until they shine enough to distract us from the ending. but even the brightest flare knows its job is brief. it burns, it dazzles, then apologizes with smoke. nothing escapes the fade. not stars, not systems, not us. we return to the ground we borrowed from, complete the circle, as if we were always just passing through                           ...

they were avo and toast, two halves that mattered the most, soft green laughter on crusty gold, warm mornings wrapped in stories told. they spread sunlight like butter on bread, shared crumbs of joy before going to bed. sometimes life got salty, or burnt at the edge, but they stayed close, clinging like a pledge. yet toast can crumble, avo can bruise, love sometimes loses, despite all we choose. they left, leaving crumbs on the table of time, and the knife of absence cut rhythm and rhyme. but memory lingers like crumbs in the pan, the soft and the sharp, the moments they ran. the scent of coffee, the cornered smiles, the quiet small mornings that stretched for miles. forgiveness rises, a slow gentle heat, like butter melting on bread, bittersweet. they remember the flavor, the perfect bite, and let go of the edges that cut too tight. and though they’re gone, the kitchen still hums, with echoes of laughter, the warmth that comes. avo and toast, imperfect, yet true, a story folded into t...

The storm recedes; the branches bow, their broken prayers drip into earth. A hush remains—no thunder now, just soil that dreams of quiet birth. The days roll on in muted gray, each hour a stone along the lane; yet still the heart learns not to fray, for even stillness soothes the strain. Hope does not blaze, but softly glows, a lantern lit in twilight’s seam; it steadies hands, it slowly grows, the tender marrow of a dream.                                                     -Deia