The Shift

There’s been a shift in the universe.

Something subtle—

not loud enough to shatter the sky,

not violent enough for anyone to scream.

Just… wrong.

The air carries a memory

that doesn’t belong to this version of the world.

Familiar streets lean at impossible angles,

and the stars

are no longer where they promised to be.

What once made sense

now drips from my hands

like a language

I almost remember speaking.

The past moves strangely behind us—

not fixed,

but breathing.

I swear some of our memories

are watching us.

You look the same,

but your shadow hesitates

before following you.

And when you say my name

it echoes

like it belongs to someone

who lived here before me.

Maybe the universe corrected itself.

Maybe we were the mistake

it quietly erased.

Or maybe—

we slipped sideways

into a reality

that fits our shapes

a little too tightly.

You’ve changed.

And so have I.

But the most terrifying thing is this:

I can’t remember

which versions of us

were real

~S~

Phantom Memory

Silk sheets caress my overheated skin

as images of you race through my dreams.

I reach out a shaky hand, trying to pull you closer—

but you fade into a wisp of smoke.

Your outline lingers

like heat above desert sand,

distorting the shape of something

that was never fully there.

My fingers close on nothing.

Only the ghost of warmth remains,

a phantom pulse

where your heartbeat should be.

The room tilts softly in the dark,

perfume of sleep and longing

thick in the air—

and somewhere between dreaming and waking

I swear I hear you breathe.

But when I turn toward the sound

the night exhales slowly…

and you dissolve again

into the quiet

~S~

Between Here and There

In that sweet spot

between there and here,

your lips find my soul

as if they have always known the way.

The world pauses—

a quiet inhale suspended in time,

while something wild and luminous

awakens beneath my skin.

I breathe deeply,

trying to steady the exhilaration

rushing like fire through my veins,

but some things

were never meant

to be calmed

~S~

Daily Mask

My facial muscles settle

into their familiar lie—

a polite arrangement of skin

stretching into a practiced smile.

A ghastly grin,

stitched carefully across bone,

the mask I wear for daylight

so the world may see

a happy indifference.

They do not notice

how heavy it is.

Behind it,

something inside me ruptures—

silent and unseen—

as I weep tears of blood

that no one will ever wipe away.

And while they greet the mask

as if it were me,

the pain and the longing

tear through what remains

of the person beneath it

~S~

The Language of Small Things

The soft sweep of fingertips across my forehead,

brushing away a stray strand of hair…

The gentle graze of a hand

wiping tears that were never meant to be seen.

Are these the quiet signatures of love?

Is it hidden in the soft sigh

that escapes when arms tighten around you

for just a moment longer

before letting go?

Is it the stillness that follows—

a fragile peace

after the storms of old pain have passed?

Perhaps it lives in smaller places…

In the reflex smile

that appears when a memory drifts through your mind,

Or in the sudden flutter of butterflies

when your phone lights up

with their name.

Maybe love

is not declared in grand gestures—

but whispered

in the language

of small things

~S~

Regret

In the heat of the moment

passion burns high—

as if ignited by some otherworldly fuel.

Flames roar toward the sky,

devouring everything in their path.

Nothing seems strong enough

to smother the blaze.

It feeds on reason,

on restraint,

on every quiet voice of caution—

until at last

it devours itself.

And when the fire dies,

there is nothing left

but silence,

emptiness,

and the cold grey ashes

of regret.

~S~

After the Fire

In the heat of the moment

passion erupts—

fueled by something ancient and reckless,

a spark dragged from the dark corners of the soul.

Flames claw toward the sky,

ravenous and merciless.

They swallow reason whole,

choke the quiet voice of restraint,

and feast on every fragile boundary

ever meant to keep us safe.

Nothing survives the blaze.

Not logic.

Not innocence.

Not the fragile illusion

that we were ever in control.

And when the inferno finally collapses

under the weight of its own hunger,

there is no triumph—

only the smoldering ruin of what once was.

The smoke clears slowly…

revealing scorched memories,

twisted remnants of trust,

and the unbearable silence

where something sacred used to live.

All that remains

is the hollow ache of knowing

we lit the match ourselves—

and the cold, grey ashes

of regret

still clinging

to our hands

~S~