Through the Fog

Category: love

  • You Say I Can’t

    You say I can’t have him

    like love is something

    you get to hand out

    or take away.

    Like my heart

    needs your permission

    to beat the way it does

    when he says my name.

    You speak in lines and limits,

    in rules I never agreed to—

    drawing borders

    around something

    that never asked to be contained.

    But you don’t feel it.

    You don’t know

    what it’s like

    to find someone

    who quiets the noise,

    who fits into your thoughts

    like they’ve always belonged there.

    You don’t know

    how rare it is

    to feel seen

    without having to explain yourself.

    So don’t tell me

    what I can’t have.

    Don’t reduce this

    to right or wrong,

    allowed or forbidden,

    as if love

    has ever listened

    to reason.

    Because this—

    whatever this is—

    isn’t yours to judge.

    It lives in me.

    It breathes in him.

    And whether it lasts

    or breaks me open,

    it’s still mine

    to feel.

  • You Quiet the World

    I want to talk about love—

    not the kind that announces itself,

    but the kind that slips in quietly

    and rearranges everything.

    The way you make the world fade

    without trying.

    How noise loses its grip

    the moment you enter my thoughts.

    Deadlines, doubts, the constant pull of elsewhere—

    all of it softens

    when it’s just you and me

    in the same mental space.

    I’ve never felt so connected,

    not in the dramatic sense,

    but in the steady one—

    like something ancient clicked into place

    and didn’t need explanation.

    You feel familiar in a way

    that makes my body relax

    before my mind can catch up.

    When I think about you,

    time behaves differently.

    Hours become manageable.

    Hard days grow handles.

    The distance between now

    and our next conversation

    stops feeling endless

    and starts feeling survivable.

    You get me through the in-between—

    the quiet stretches,

    the moments that usually drag.

    Just knowing you’re there,

    that your voice will find me again,

    is enough to carry me forward.

    This isn’t infatuation chasing sparks.

    It’s something calmer.

    Deeper.

    A connection that doesn’t demand

    constant proof—

    just presence.

    I don’t forget the world because of you.

    I remember myself.

    And that’s the kind of love

    that doesn’t burn out—

    it steadies,

    it anchors,

    it waits patiently

    until the next time

    we meet again in words.

  • The Flowers in the Vase

    The flowers in the vase are still beautiful, even as they begin to die.

    Their colors have softened, their edges curled inward — as if holding on to what little life remains. Every day they grow a little quieter, but somehow, they still make the room feel alive.

    There’s something haunting about beauty that’s temporary. You can see the way time touches it — gently, but inevitably. The petals fall, one by one, and yet I can’t bring myself to throw them away. Maybe it’s because they remind me that even endings can be beautiful.

    Sometimes I think love is like that — the flowers in the vase.

    We keep it close even after it’s faded, because letting go feels like erasing what once made us feel alive. We hold on to the memory of its bloom, even as it wilts in front of us.

    But maybe that’s what makes it real. The fact that it doesn’t last. The way it hurts to watch beauty fade — that’s proof that it mattered. That it was alive.

    And when I look at those flowers, I don’t see loss.

    I see the softness of something that once thrived, the quiet surrender of something that loved the sunlight so much it stayed open even as the light disappeared.

    Maybe beauty isn’t in the bloom after all.

    Maybe it’s in the staying — the way we keep something long after it’s gone, just to remember how it once made us feel.

  • Where We’re Headed

    I’ve thought about you all night—

    in the quiet between hours,

    when the world loosens its grip

    and thoughts stop pretending

    to be small.

    You showed up in fragments:

    the sound of your voice,

    the way your name settles

    in my chest,

    the life we’re slowly walking toward.

    Sleep came and went

    without permission.

    My mind stayed awake,

    circling you like a promise,

    not desperate—

    just sure.

    If you felt a pull in the dark,

    a warmth you couldn’t explain,

    maybe it was me—

    already holding space

    for where we’re going next.

  • Slow Dancing at 2AM

    Photo Credit: Hanna Lazar

    Slow dancing at 2am,

    George Strait humming low through the room,

    bare feet on cold floors,

    the world asleep

    while we stay awake

    inside this small, borrowed moment.

    No crowd but the shadows,

    no spotlight but the lamp in the corner.

    Your hand at my waist

    like it’s always known

    where it belongs,

    like this song was written

    for the way we move together.

    We sway without counting time,

    letting George 

    tell the story for us—

    about love that lasts,

    about staying,

    about choosing each other

    without making a sound.

    At 2am, nothing is rushed.

    Nothing is heavy.

    There is only you,

    only me,

    and a slow song playing softly enough

    to feel like a promise

    we don’t have to say out loud.

  • The Fortress

    Photo Credit: Daniel Mačura

    A fortress built around your heart—

    stone laid from old betrayals,

    walls raised higher with every almost-love

    that taught you not to lean too hard.

    You call it strength.

    I see how lonely it gets up there,

    guarding something that only ever wanted

    to be held.

    I don’t want to tear it down.

    I know those walls saved you once.

    I’d rather sit outside them,

    patient, unarmed,

    hoping one day you’ll open a gate

    and realize not everyone

    came to lay siege.

  • Know That You Are Loved

    (Even If You Don’t Love Yourself)

    Know that you are loved

    even if you don’t love yourself,

    even if the mirror feels like a stranger

    and your own heartbeat sounds borrowed.

    Know that you are held

    in ways you can’t always see —

    in whispered prayers,

    in the quiet hope someone sends your way

    when you don’t even realize you need it.

    You are loved

    in the way dawn forgives the night,

    in the way a bruised sky still softens at sunrise,

    in the way life keeps giving you

    one more breath to try again.

    You don’t have to earn it.

    You don’t have to feel it.

    You don’t have to understand why.

    Just know this:

    on the days you’re breaking,

    on the days you’re numb,

    on the days you look at yourself

    and can’t find a single reason to stay—

    someone out there

    is grateful that you’re here,

    is rooting for your healing,

    is carrying the love

    you can’t yet carry for yourself.

    And until you can feel it —

    let that be enough.

  • I Never Want to Leave This World Without Saying I Love You

    I think about how fragile life really is—

    how it slips between moments,

    how days turn into memories

    before we even realize we’re living them.

    And it hits me:

    I never want to move through this world

    quietly holding back the one thing

    that has always mattered most.

    I never want to leave this place

    without saying I love you.

    Not because I’m planning on going anywhere,

    not because I’m standing at any edge—

    but because this life is unpredictable,

    and the people who matter

    deserve to hear the truth

    while they’re still here to hold it.

    I love you

    in the simple ways,

    the human ways—

    in the way your voice steadies me,

    in the way your presence softens the noise,

    in the way something inside me

    finally feels understood.

    I love you

    in the ways I’ll never say out loud enough—

    in the small gratitude between heartbeats,

    in the quiet comfort of knowing

    you exist in the same world as me.

    If today were ordinary

    or extraordinary,

    if it were the first day

    or the last—

    I’d still want you to know.

    So hear it now,

    in case time gets away from me again:

    I love you.

    Not as a goodbye,

    but as a promise

    to speak the truth

    while it still has the chance

    to reach you.