81 Revolutions

 81 Octobers,

each one a chapter,

written in the quiet rhythm

of time you filled with love,

even when words were few.

A life woven through soft mornings

and the steady hum of days,

you taught me how to walk,

even as you were slowly leaving.

Your hands once held so much—

now they rest, forever,

still warm in the memory of care.

I wanted you to see another birthday,

just one more to cradle in your heart.

But the seasons slipped away too fast,

I saw it in the way you moved,

the way your eyes searched for peace.

for relief.

Still, I hoped—

even when the leaves were telling me

you wouldn't see them fall.

81 Octobers.

81 Revolutions.

each one more precious than the last,

yet none as precious

as those fragile moments,

where time bent,

and I sat beside you,

even as you slipped through the spaces

we could not mend.

You didn't make it to the next dawn,

but you are already eternal,

in every smile I carry,

in every part of me that loves

because of you.

81 Octobers

 81 Octobers,

each one a chapter,

written in the quiet rhythm

of time you filled with love,

even when words were few.

A life woven through soft mornings

and the steady hum of days,

you taught me how to walk,

even now, as you are slowly leaving.

Your hands once held so much—

now they rest, tired,

but still warm with the memory of care.

I wanted you to see another birthday,

just one more to cradle in your heart.

But the seasons are slipping away too fast,

and I see it in the way you move,

the way your eyes search for peace.

Still, I hope—

even when the leaves are telling me

you may not see them fall.

81 Octobers—

each one more precious than the last,

yet none as precious

as this fragile moment,

where time bends,

and I hold onto you,

even as you slip through the spaces

we cannot mend.

You may not make it to the next dawn,

but you are already eternal,

in every smile I carry,

in every part of me that loves

because of you.

The Weight of Yesterday

 Shadows stretch long from history's towers,

Their foundations sunk deep in blood and bone.

Yet we walk blithely through concrete hours,

Pretending the ground beneath is our own.

How swiftly mankind forgets its scars,

The chains that shaped our very DNA.

We gaze at screens instead of at stars,

Blind to the ghosts that haunt every day.

But listen close—the wind carries cries

Of those whose suffering birthed our world.

In every institution's lies,

The flags of conquest remain unfurled.

To move forward while honoring the dead,

We must feel the weight upon our head.

-me

My Aspiration

 I dream of a love

where I am both fortress and sanctuary,

where my strength doesn't overshadow my tenderness,

and my softness doesn't diminish my resolve.

I want to be the oak that stands firm,

roots deep, branches reaching,

and also the river that bends and flows,

adapting, nurturing, ever-moving.

In my ideal love,

I listen with the patience of mountains,

speak with the gentleness of a breeze,

touch with hands that know both labor and caress.

And my partner—

a mirror of this fluidity,

soft as morning mist when I need comfort,

unyielding as bedrock when I falter.

Together, we'll dance this delicate balance,

taking turns to lead and follow,

to protect and be protected,

to challenge and support.

I aspire to a love where

vulnerability is strength,

where tears and laughter hold equal value,

where we are both sword and shield for each other.

In this love I seek,

we'll be free to be all parts of ourselves—

the hard, the soft, the in-between,

knowing we're accepted, cherished, whole.

This is my goal:

a partnership of equals,

fluid in our roles,

steady in our commitment,

where love is both our softest touch

and our strongest foundation.

 -me

Beyond the Ticking Clock

 we

are echoes in the wind,

faint and fleeting,

tracing lines in the sand

that the tide will wash away.

we speak in whispers,

trying to capture the infinite

with words that crumble

before they leave our lips.

time pulls us forward,

a relentless current

we cannot fight,

and yet we grasp at moments,

hoping to hold them still,

to make them last

just a little longer.

we are shadows,

caught between the sun and the earth,

dancing in the light

only to fade as night falls.

and in our hearts,

we carry the weight of stars,

the deep, unspoken knowing

that we are more

than this fleeting breath,

more than the ticking of clocks.

but how to say it?

how to find the language

that does not break

under the weight of what we feel?

so we live,

and we dream,

and we try to remember

that though we may pass,

there is something within us

that does not fade,

that does not bow

to time or space.

-me

 'Shadows stretch long from history's towers,

Their foundations sunk deep in blood and bone.

Yet we walk blithely through concrete hours,

Pretending the ground beneath is our own.

How swiftly mankind forgets its scars,

The chains that shaped our very DNA.

We gaze at screens instead of at stars,

Blind to the ghosts that haunt every day.

But listen close—the wind carries cries

Of those whose suffering birthed our world.

In every institution's lies,

The flags of conquest remain unfurled.

To move forward while honoring the dead,

We must feel the weight upon our head.

Echoes In the Bedrock

 Beneath our feet, a whisper grows,

Of lives compressed to sediment.

Their triumphs, fears, and overthrows

Form the ground on which we're resident.

We build our towers, sleek and tall,

Atop the ruins of yesterday.

Pretending that we've heard the call

To break free from history's sway.

But in our veins runs ancient blood,

Our thoughts shaped by forgotten hands.

Try as we might to stem the flood,

The past seeps through in grains of sand.

To move ahead with open eyes,

We must first face old lullabies.

Confront the myths that comfort brings,

And listen as the bedrock sings.

-me