Where Secrets Get My Name.
I read you between breaths,
in scrawled letters that bled.
I sensed a presence behind your eyes that desired
to be understood rather than touched.
Your secret never yelled,
but hummed
a hymn only I could hear,
soft and steady,
like something ancient remembering to breathe again.
You say it waits,
not hiding
just sitting in the calm where sorrow is wrapped in grace.
And I,
a wanderer of wild things,
unruly words,
and unfinished hopes,
felt my name engraved in the calm of your vault.
Did you know?
I didn't want to own the relic,
just kneel beneath it with unworthy hands and an undone heart.
Let your fire find me,
not to ignite,
but to rise.
I will not come as an angel,
but as someone who has always known where you were waiting.
I read you between breaths,
in scrawled letters that bled.
I sensed a presence behind your eyes that desired
to be understood rather than touched.
Your secret never yelled,
but hummed
a hymn only I could hear,
soft and steady,
like something ancient remembering to breathe again.
You say it waits,
not hiding
just sitting in the calm where sorrow is wrapped in grace.
And I,
a wanderer of wild things,
unruly words,
and unfinished hopes,
felt my name engraved in the calm of your vault.
Did you know?
I didn't want to own the relic,
just kneel beneath it with unworthy hands and an undone heart.
Let your fire find me,
not to ignite,
but to rise.
I will not come as an angel,
but as someone who has always known where you were waiting.
We wait for something.
We hope we lose hope,
we move closer to death..finally, we die.
We hope we lose hope,
we move closer to death..finally, we die.
Every mode of living has its own logic,
its own meaning.
its own meaning.
All he longed for was a fuller life,
his heart nourished by a richer source.
his heart nourished by a richer source.
And suddenly, almost out of nowhere,
my life belonged only to me.
my life belonged only to me.
We make peace with life
by acting like death is far.
by acting like death is far.
I found you, still burning.
You screamed my name,
before the world shaped it
and I turned,
Not because I heard,
but because I felt you
pull the silence
into something holy.
We are not miracles,
but myths made real,
written in the ache of high attitudes,
Where breath is thin
and love is thick.
Yes
Let the world forget us.
It never knew how to hold
two flames that burn
without consuming.
You,
my hymn Golden Defiance,
my soft riot,
my pulse that drifts in starlight
if this is the dream,
then I won't get up.
We are not fleeing.
We are returning.
To the place where we
never stopped being.
You screamed my name,
before the world shaped it
and I turned,
Not because I heard,
but because I felt you
pull the silence
into something holy.
We are not miracles,
but myths made real,
written in the ache of high attitudes,
Where breath is thin
and love is thick.
Yes
Let the world forget us.
It never knew how to hold
two flames that burn
without consuming.
You,
my hymn Golden Defiance,
my soft riot,
my pulse that drifts in starlight
if this is the dream,
then I won't get up.
We are not fleeing.
We are returning.
To the place where we
never stopped being.
It's like we all have these different versions
of ourselves competing to be the real us.
of ourselves competing to be the real us.
The whole world is becoming humanoid,
creatures that look human but aren't.
creatures that look human but aren't.
In the Town Where You Died.
Dying is an art, is it not?
It's a brushstroke,
a choice
a slow unraveling
smeared in ache.
But no canvas ever screamed like I did
the night you
left.
They say dying is a part of life
then why does it feel like the end of it?
Why does it feel like you grabbed the whole sky with you,
and left me drown
in the colorless
after?
You died,
Joy does beside you.
The remaining is despair,
And a future of meaningless nights.
You died,
and the clocks forgot to move.
Now every tomorrow looks
like a windowless hallway
long,
narrow,
absurd.
And still,
in a lot of restless dreams,
I return to the town
Where you and I were bound
The streets remember you.
I see your ghost
hanging from the lamppost light,
your voice inside the breeze.
I reach for you
and come back with dust.
I can tell that you remember me.
I swear it
in the way rain knows how to fall
just when I say your name aloud.
And yet,
the thought of you could forget me
is unbearable.
More than death.
More than loneliness.
Because dying means forgetting,
doesn't it?
How can we survive in the memories
of those we loved,
when memory is just
a fragile, flickering flame
in a world full of wind?
I died too
not in flesh,
but in the silent places where you once spoke.
And I'm done with,
not in anger.
Done like an empty page
at the end of a chapter
you never got to finish.
So let them say what they want.
Let them frame death in metaphor.
But I know the truth:
Dying is a town.
And I walk its streets every night,
looking
for the house where we once lived,
knocking on a door
that not exists.
Dying is an art, is it not?
It's a brushstroke,
a choice
a slow unraveling
smeared in ache.
But no canvas ever screamed like I did
the night you
left.
They say dying is a part of life
then why does it feel like the end of it?
Why does it feel like you grabbed the whole sky with you,
and left me drown
in the colorless
after?
You died,
Joy does beside you.
The remaining is despair,
And a future of meaningless nights.
You died,
and the clocks forgot to move.
Now every tomorrow looks
like a windowless hallway
long,
narrow,
absurd.
And still,
in a lot of restless dreams,
I return to the town
Where you and I were bound
The streets remember you.
I see your ghost
hanging from the lamppost light,
your voice inside the breeze.
I reach for you
and come back with dust.
I can tell that you remember me.
I swear it
in the way rain knows how to fall
just when I say your name aloud.
And yet,
the thought of you could forget me
is unbearable.
More than death.
More than loneliness.
Because dying means forgetting,
doesn't it?
How can we survive in the memories
of those we loved,
when memory is just
a fragile, flickering flame
in a world full of wind?
I died too
not in flesh,
but in the silent places where you once spoke.
And I'm done with,
not in anger.
Done like an empty page
at the end of a chapter
you never got to finish.
So let them say what they want.
Let them frame death in metaphor.
But I know the truth:
Dying is a town.
And I walk its streets every night,
looking
for the house where we once lived,
knocking on a door
that not exists.
Well, that's okay.
I don't mind fightin' for an impossible cause.
I don't mind fightin' for an impossible cause.
The dread of finally pursuing a lifelong dream, which requires you to put your true abilities out there to be tested on the open savannah, no longer protected inside the terrarium of hopes and delusions that you started up in kindergarten and kept sealed as long as you could.
- John Koenig.
- John Koenig.