I always pictured myself strong
Not this trembling version,
Not this fake king with cardboard armor,
Not this man who breaks
Every time life whispers instead of yells.
Yeah…
This is me talking to the mirror,
And the mirror ain’t impressed.

I hate how scared I am,
How one little problem feels like a war I can’t win.
I hate how I freeze up,
How my voice dies when I need it the most.
Talking big dreams like I’m meant to rule something,
But can’t even rule my own thoughts,
Can’t even fight my own panic,
Can’t even walk through a storm
Without shaking like it’s judgment day.

Everybody wants to be a hero
But I’m the type who’d drop the sword
Before the fight even starts.
I talk about lifting mountains
Like I can’t even lift my own heart.
Man… that’s the part that stings the hardest.

I dreamed of power.
But I’m powered by fear.
I dreamed of greatness.
But I can’t even think clear.
I dreamed of being unstoppable
But I’m stopped by everything near.

Look at me
Stressing at the smallest noise,
Shaking at the smallest choice.
How am I supposed to be a shield
When I can’t even trust my own voice?

How do I protect the one I love
When I fold under pressure like wet paper?
How do I promise forever
When I break in the middle of “I’ll try later”?

I’m tired of this weak version of me,
This knockoff,
This cheap copy of the monster I wanted to become.
I’m tired of pretending I’m built different
When I’m built like a pile of fears
Holding hands and calling themselves “human.”

I’m weak.
God, I’m weak…
Not the man I swore I’d grow into.
Not the hero I imagined.
Just the echo
Of the strength I wish was true.

But maybe
Maybe weakness isn’t the end.
Maybe the fact that I’m breaking
Means I know where to begin.
Maybe I’m not strong yet
Because I’ve never had something worth lifting myself for.
Maybe I never climbed
Because I never had a reason to reach the top
Until now.

Yeah, maybe love is the fire in my lungs,
The spark that tells fear,
“Move aside, he’s not done.”
Maybe she’s the reason
I’ll grab the walls of this pit
And drag myself up
Even if my nails crack
And my bones split.

Maybe I’ll learn to stand.
Maybe I’ll learn to swing.
Maybe I’ll learn to breathe
In the middle of a storm
Instead of hiding under everything.
Maybe the weakness I’m drowning in
Is just the version of me
I’m supposed to kill
Before the real me begins.

I’ve been scared so long
I forgot fear doesn’t own me.
I’ve been weak so long
I forgot strength grows slowly.
I’ve been lost so long
I forgot climbing starts
With reaching out for something holy
And she’s the only thing
That ever felt like “go.”

Yeah, I’m weak
But I’m done staying down.
I’m done letting fear be king,
Done letting doubt wear the crown.
If love is the push,
Then watch me rise from the ground.
I’m weak
But not forever.
I’m weak
But I’m learning how to climb now.
Step by step, breath by breath…
I swear one day
I’ll be the man
I dreamed about.

Weak

Before you,
my world was made for one
quiet rooms,
empty corners,
a life that echoed softly
against the walls I thought I knew.

But then you walked in,
and everything shifted
in the gentlest, sweetest way
a change I didn’t expect,
a change I didn’t know
I’d been waiting for.

Now the bathroom door opens
to two towels side by side,
your soft pink one
hanging like a small sunrise
beside my old, faded blue.
My lonely shoes by the door
stand guard next to your tiny pairs,
a whole constellation
of little steps
that now walk beside mine.

The mirror I once faced alone
now holds your reflection too,
your rosy toothbrush
leaning against mine
like two hearts
learning how to share the same rhythm.

The bed
God, the bed feels different now.
It used to stretch
like an empty field,
too wide, too cold,
too quiet.
Now there’s an extra pillow,
a soft reminder
that I’m no longer meant
to dream alone.

Even the shower changed
my lonely bar of soap
now swimming among bottles
of shampoo, conditioner, creams,
all the little things
that whisper you’re here,
you exist in my spaces,
you live in my world.

The table that once held
a single plate
now serves two
two meals,
two laughs,
two stories unfolding
at the same time.
And every morning
there are two cups of coffee
cooling on the counter,
your hands warming mine
as the day begins
with something that finally feels like home.

People fear change
I did too,
once.
I held tightly to my solitude,
afraid that anyone who entered
might break the fragile balance
I had convinced myself was enough.

But you…
you didn’t break anything.
You filled it.
You softened it.
You brightened it.
You turned my quiet into harmony,
my loneliness into belonging,
my routines into meaning.

Your arrival
was the best change of my life—
the kind that settles slowly,
beautifully,
like sunlight touching a room
that had been dark for far too long.

And now,
every towel,
every shoe,
every cup of coffee,
every tiny piece of you scattered through my days
reminds me of one truth:
my world became better
the moment it became ours.

Changes

You’re small enough to fit
in the cradle of my arms,
a little spark running through the world
with footsteps that sound like laughter
breaking loose from the pavement.

You say you don’t like your height,
but to me it’s the perfect measure
of how close I get to hold you
chin resting on your hair,
your heartbeat pressed against my ribs
like a secret drum only I can hear.

Every time you run toward me,
the whole street tilts into sunlight;
you crash into my chest
and the day finally remembers what joy is.

And yeah, I lose you sometimes
in stores crowded with clothes
and people who don’t know
they’re blocking the most precious thing I’ve ever found.
For a moment your silhouette disappears,
and the air feels strangely empty,
like a song missing its rhythm.

But then you pop out from between
a stack of dresses and a wall of noise,
eyes wide, lips curled into that tiny smile
that folds the universe back into place.

Loving you is movement,
a rhythm that jumps like warm hands on strings,
a melody that bounces barefoot
across our messy little world.

You fit against me
like dusk fits against the sky
soft, inevitable,
burning in a color only we know.

And when we lie down
and your body curls into mine,
I feel the heat of you settle
like a sunrise choosing my chest as its home.
No matter where the day scattered you,
your warmth always finds its way back.

So let the crowds swallow you for a second,
let the city stretch tall around us
I’ll still find you,
every time,
everywhere,
because loving you
has never needed directions.

Cute And Small

When we’re lying there,
the world pressed mute around us,
your breath settling warm against my neck
like a soft promise the night forgot to keep,
I feel the quiet become something holy
a sanctuary built from tangled arms
and the steady drum of our hearts
arguing softly about who loves who more.

And then you ask it
that tiny question that shakes the whole room
without ever raising its voice:
...

“Will you love me forever?”
Sung in that sweet, trembling tone
that sounds like hope folding its wings,
like a candle waiting to know
if the wind is friend or enemy.

You stare at me with those gentle eyes,
full of expectation,
full of tenderness so pure
it makes the darkest parts of me
remember how to glow.
Your gaze locks into mine
as if the universe paused to hear my answer.

And I swear, every time you ask,
my chest bursts open like a struck chord,
vibrating through bone and soul,
reminding me why love
is the only thing I’ve ever believed in
without needing proof.

So I hold you
tight enough to quiet your doubts,
soft enough to let you breathe,
kissing every corner of your fear away
as I whisper the truth you already own:
“Of course I will love you forever.”

Because there is nothing in this world
strong enough to pull me from you,
no silence deep enough,
no shadow wide enough,
no road long enough
to undo what my heart decided
the moment it met yours.

With every day we live,
my soul weaves itself deeper into you,
thread by glowing thread,
and loving you becomes less a choice
and more a law of nature
like the tide returning,
like fire craving air,
like a guitar string aching
to vibrate when touched.

So ask me again,
and again,
and again
every time you do,
I’ll feel that rush,
that heartbeat sprint,
that spark firing through my ribs,
reminding me that forever
isn’t a distant horizon
it’s right here,
in your hands,
in your voice,
in that quiet moment
when our eyes hold on to each other
and nothing else matters.

Will You Love Me Forever?

Every time I check my phone
and your name blooms on the screen,
it’s like the whole world exhales
and hands me back my heartbeat.
Even the tiniest message
a single word,
a silly sticker dancing off the edge
turns my face into a smile
I couldn’t hide even if I tried.

I swear, it feels like magic
that fits in the palm of my hand,
a spark traveling miles
just to remind me I matter to you.

Sometimes I refresh the screen
more times than I should
secretly, quietly,
hoping the universe
has delivered one more piece of you
into my day.
Even at work,
when I’m supposed to be focused,
my thumb betrays me,
checking, checking again,
searching for that glow
that says you were thinking of me.

And yeah, when minutes stretch
into hours of silence,
a tiny ache settles in my chest,
not heavy, just soft
a whisper saying,
“I miss her.”

But the moment
your message finally appears
even if it’s just
a pixelated heart
or a sticker making a goofy face
I come back to life.
Light rushes in,
warm and alive,
reminding me
that distance means nothing
when your voice finds me
through a screen.

Before you,
I used to wonder
why I even kept a phone at all
what was the point
of holding something
that never carried a piece of my soul inside it?
But now it’s a treasure,
a tiny doorway
where you exist
whenever you’re far from me.

And every vibration,
every glow,
every tiny message
is proof that love
can travel silently,
swiftly,
beautifully
reminding me
that I’m special to you,
that you’re thinking of me,
that somewhere out there
your fingers searched for mine
across a digital sky.

When my phone lights up,
so does my heart
every time,
every day,
without fail.

When My Phone Lights Up

She tried to yell at the birds once
morning noise tearing the silence apart
but when she shouted “Shut up!”
it floated out soft and sugary,
like a kitten trying to roar
and forgetting what claws are for.

That’s my violent girlfriend
dangerous in theory,
adorable in practice.

Sometimes she hits me,
tiny fists landing on my shoulder
like warm raindrops pretending to be thunder.
Sometimes she bites me,
teeth grazing my skin
like a love note written by a hummingbird.
Sometimes she scratches,
fierce as a sleepy cat
who just remembered she’s supposed to be tough.

And whenever I ask,
“Why’d you do that?”
she lifts her chin,
eyes glowing with mischief,
and answers with the softest rebellion:
“Because I want to.”

And damn
I melt every time.

She knows it too,
my tiny storm,
my pocket-sized hurricane
that smells like sweetness
and hits like affection disguised as chaos.
She likes being my violent girlfriend
violent in the way petals fall,
violent in the way laughter bursts,
violent in the way love
can knock the breath out of you
without ever drawing blood.

And I love her for it
for her playful battles,
her pretend fury,
her sugar-sweet attacks
that only pull me closer.

Because her violence
is nothing more than tenderness
wrapped in mischief
a language of little taps,
soft bites,
gentle scratches
that say “I’m yours”
with every tiny impact.

So go ahead, my love
hit me with your feather punches,
bite me with your cherry-soft threat,
tell the birds to shut up
in that voice that could never hurt a soul.

I’ll smile every time,
because I adore my violent girlfriend
violent in her own sweet way,
the kind of violence
you beg to feel again.

Violent


There are kisses
that taste like destiny fulfilled
those rare moments
where everything heavy inside us
finally exhales
and lets itself believe in peace.

Kisses where waiting dissolves
in a single heartbeat,
where the distance we carried for months
collapses like dust in sunlight.
Where two paths,
wandering and wounded,
meet again as if guided
by hands older than time.

There are kisses
that suspend the world
where clocks become useless,
where memory and future
fold into one warm breath,
where the soul whispers,
“This… this is where I was always going.”

Some kisses are ancient
not because they’ve been lived before,
but because they awaken something
we always knew but forgot how to name.

Kisses that seal old cracks,
that close the wounds
we carried quietly under our ribs.
Kisses that open doors
we didn’t realize were locked
doors to tenderness,
to safety,
to the kind of belonging
that doesn’t ask permission to stay.

They taste like home,
like truth,
like the soft eternity
found in the space
between two foreheads touching.
They remind us
that love doesn’t arrive
it remembers itself through us.

And then…
there are your kisses.

Your kisses hold all of that
and still spill beyond the edges.
They rise with their own gravity,
pulling me in
as if the universe
had carved a place
for my mouth against yours
long before we ever met.

Your kisses don’t just close wounds
they rewrite them,
turning scars into stories
I’m no longer afraid to tell.

Your kisses conquer darkness
without a single battle cry,
bend sorrow back into softness,
teach hope how to speak again.

They steal my breath
not with fear,
but with beauty—
that kind of beauty
that makes the heart tremble
because it finally feels safe.

Your kisses taste like eternity—
not an endless stretch of time,
but the quiet certainty
that this moment,
this connection,
this love
was always meant.

They fill me
until the empty parts disappear,
carry me gently
through every doubt,
lift me to places
where the sky feels reachable
and my heart feels understood.

Only your kisses
carry that truth.
Only from your mouth
does the world soften
and open like morning light.

And every time you kiss me,
I fall again
into you,
into us,
into the forever
that hides behind your lips.

Only your kisses.
Only from you.
I love you
in every breath,
in every lifetime
where I get to find you again.

Kisses

She wakes up every morning
blinking at the blurry universe,
hands searching across the sheets
like a traveler lost in a soft, warm desert
looking for one sacred treasure:
her glasses.

My beautiful girl
so blind she might walk past the door
and greet the wall instead,
so blind she might miss
the love notes I text her
unless her screen is glowing two inches from her face.

And God, I adore it.

Sometimes she calls for me,
voice sleepy and tiny,
“Babe… where are my glasses?”
And I move like a knight on a mission,
checking pillows, corners, the top of her head
because somehow they always end up
in the most impossible places.

She giggles when I find them,
as if I’d rescued her
from a world made of watercolor shapes
and friendly blurs pretending to be furniture.

And yeah, I joke about it
how I’m grateful she’s a little blind,
because maybe that’s why
she thinks I’m attractive,
why she saw something in me
even if she couldn’t exactly see me.

But even without her glasses,
she never misses my heart.
Even in the haze,
she always finds her way to my arms,
to my lips,
to the sound of her name
whispered against her forehead.

She’s my girl with the glasses,
my sweet half-blind miracle,
and I love her with a devotion
that doesn’t need sight
to know where it belongs.

Because what we have is blind love
the good kind,
the kind that doesn’t check directions,
the kind that walks straight into the fire
just to warm someone else’s hands.


And I’m just as blind for her
blind to anyone else,
blind to anything
that isn’t her smile,
her laughter,
her fingers reaching out
to find me in the morning light.

So let her lose her glasses again,
let the world blur into soft watercolor shapes
she’ll still find me,
and I’ll still choose her,
every time,
in every shade,
in every blur.

That’s blind love
ours and only ours.

Blind Love

When the morning pulls me away,
and the door clicks shut behind me,
I watch your hand waving through the window
like a small piece of heaven trying not to fade.
And in that instant
before the street even wakes
I already miss you.

The day begins its long routine,
but every little thing
keeps dragging your shadow back to me:
the softness of the air,
a stranger’s laugh,
the scent of warm coffee
reminding me of the way you breathe
when you curl into my chest.

I try to focus,
I try to work,
but you slip under every thought
like a melody refusing to let go.
Your lips echo in my memory,
those plush, tender shapes
I swear I could recognize by touch alone,
and my hands ache with the need
to pull your waist close again,
to feel your warmth melting into me
like a sunrise spreading over skin.

I count the minutes
every one a spark of longing,
every one a step closer
to your eyes,
those eyes that undo me
every time they look at me
as if I were the only place
you ever wanted to rest.

And God, the ache hits hard
this restless, crazy pull
that twists inside my chest
when I remember your kisses,
soft but burning,
the kind that leave a ghost of sweetness
long after they’re gone.

I walk through the day
with your name beating in my pulse,
with the ghost of your arms
hugging the cold spaces beside me,
with the memory of your body
pressed warm against mine
like the world finally made sense.


All I want is to run back to you,
to your whispers,
to your laughter,
to that little moment
when you open the door
and everything inside me settles.

So let time move,
let the hours crumble away
I’m counting them down,
one by one,
until I’m back
kissing those lips,
holding that waist,
falling into those eyes
I haven’t stopped seeing
since the second
I walked out the door.

Counting The Minutes

So I look into your eyes,
I see a horizon trembling at the far edge of time,
a place where old memories rise like tired birds
still learning how to land without breaking.

I see the echoes of days
that once cut through you like iron on fire,
the shadows that shaped your voice,
the storms that carved the softness in your smile.

In those quiet galaxies behind your gaze,
I feel the weight of forests you crossed alone
branches tearing at your skin,
roots catching your steps,
wolves whispering doubts you never deserved.

Yet you walked,
slow, wounded, stubborn,
carrying your own light cupped between shaking hands,
a flame refusing to die
even when the night asked you to.

And now you stand here,
noble in ways you don’t see,
beautiful like a truth long hidden,
careful with every word you give,
loving with a tenderness learned through pain.

Your past glitters there
not as chains,
but as pieces of armor forged in the heat
that once tried to consume you.

Every time I fall into your eyes,
I watch oceans bloom
beyond the last ridge of sorrow.
I hear waves calling your name,
carrying promises the world owes you.

And I know…
it’s not easy to leave the ghosts behind.
Some cling like vines,
some whisper old lies
that feel too familiar to ignore.

But I’m here,
with hands open,
ready to unlatch those rusted locks
and help you drop the past
like a stone finally allowed to rest.

I’m here to walk beside you
under whatever sun your future chooses,
to catch your footsteps
when the path tilts,
to pull you gently from the places
where the darkness calls your name.

Let me guide you with patience,
with warmth,
with the kind of love
that grows slow and steady,
like a melody found on a dusty guitar
at the end of a long, bruised night.

Through your eyes,
I’ve learned that every soul
is a map written in scars and miracles
and yours, my love,
is a constellation I will spend my life
learning to read.


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