Whatever our souls are made of, these two are the same.

She sat cross-legged in the dim hush of the room, a lamp casting long purple shadows across the pages of her journal.

The house was quiet asleep— only the german cuckoo clock broke the silence, the ticking like distant footsteps.

But she was wide awake, pulse quietly chanting a name.

There were moments— when she could feel him before the words even came. As if thoughts crossed chasms of time and distance to find her.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Earlier, she, full of brightness and grace, greeted her friends in big circle of love. Smiling the way they loved, delivering kindness like communion wafers.

But inside, behind the soft armor of charm, she was somewhere else entirely. A secret garden, locked from the world, with a name carved into every tree.

No one noticed. They never did.

She felt something unique in the pantheon of her life.

Seen. Truly seen.

As if her soul had a shape that someone could finally trace. Wanted—yes, but not just a carnal lust that felled so many through history.

A desire for her thoughts, her cleverness, her edges, her ruin.

A kissed mind when others looked away.

Ache in that beautiful, dangerous way. The ache that poetry understands.

As though each rib was a string, and he a bow taut and sinewy. Every letter from him a sonata. Every glance imagined—a chorus.

She dreamed of possibilities that couldn’t be. Not in this world. Maybe not in the next—

in dreams, in whispered hours, in glances exchanged across crowded rooms. A liminal dwelling of existence.

She closed her journal slowly, placed it on the bedside table like a secret relic.

Then, stretching out across the covers, she imagined the weight of a head on her chest, and fingers tracing poetry.

He had asked how her day went. He always asked. No one else did, not like that.

Not with reverence. And that made all the difference.

So she closed her eyes and let sleep take her gently— drifting into firelight and lilac air, barefoot in the studio, the scent of oil paint and summer.

Still whispering poems as pierced realities.

As if this time she wouldn’t wake up alone.

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#poetry #confession #osxs

She Was On His Mind Like A Song On The Radio

She said it softly— not as a confession,
 but as something elemental,
 like the wind admitting
 it moves the treetops.

“Communicating with you Is as natural as breathing,”

And he has always
 breathed her in— 
each word she gave,
 a lungful of meaning, Of validation and celebration, each reply he offered,
 a quiet exhale of Hope for understanding.

But there was never a Need for explanation. 
 No scrambling for the Perfect phrase.
 Just thoughts curving Toward one another
 Like vines in the same wind.

Ideas drifting back and forth Like streams over stones That knew their way even If they didn’t understand The destination.

Now he sits, pen in hand,
 lungs still full
 of what she left in him,
 writing not to be heard,
 but to remember
 how it felt
 to be fully understood.

To be seen.

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#poetry #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

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