I could write a thousand pieces for you—
each one bleeding ink like it knows your name,
each one heavy with the weight of what I feel.

I have.
And every syllable was truth,
every line a confession,
every stanza a small shrine
built in the shadow of you.

But poems are only paper.
They do not fold your hands into mine,
they do not wake beside you,
they do not keep promises in the quiet hours
when love is measured in deeds, not syllables.

I meant every word.
I meant them like fire meant to burn,
like vows whispered into the dead of night,
but fire alone cannot warm you,
and words alone cannot stay.

So I write, and write,
and watch the words scatter like ash—
knowing that poems cannot fix the silence
I’ve left between us,
even as each one trembles
with the unshakable weight of my intent.

I have hurt what could not be healed.
The world I held has fallen to ruin—
Fractured and aching,
like the poetry I can no longer write for you.

Your love’s fire has burned to embers.

I am left with no flame to keep.

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𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤

Pretty words for ugly things.

• Buried Correspondence
• Poetry
• Stories

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