The sidewalk cracked last winter,
but no one remembers how.
People step over it,
same way they do with silence.

A kid drops a glove.
No one tells him.
It just lies there, palm open,
like it’s still waiting for a hand.

The sun sets early now.
Nobody argues.
We just let it happen,
like most things.

Fall is the air turning colder,
the earth sighing in colors
before everything slips into sleep.

The trees let go,
slowly at first,
then all at once—
leaves drifting down like memories,
soft and sure.

The chill in the air
grabs your bones,
reminds you that it’s time to slow,
time to wrap yourself up
and watch the world let go
of what it doesn’t need anymore.

You stand there,
watching the leaves fall,
not rushing to pick them up,
just knowing they’ll return
in their own time.

There’s a quiet in fall,
a peace in the letting go,
in the stillness that comes
before the cold.

You learn to rest,
to let the world move at its own pace,
and trust that things will come back
when they’re ready.

I asked the universe for flowers,
hoping for color, for calm,
for something to hold onto.

It gave me rain instead.
Not what I expected,
but somehow it fit.

At first, I didn’t understand—
where were the flowers?
But the rain soaked the earth,
and something shifted.

I realized
the rain was necessary,
to make room for what I wanted.

Life doesn’t always give us what we ask for.
Sometimes, it gives us what we need.
And when you accept that,
everything starts to make sense.

I used to sit under the willow,
legs stretched out in the grass,
fingers tracing the rough bark,
waiting for something to change—
but nothing ever did.

The quiet was thick there,
the kind of quiet you don’t notice
until hours slip by,
and you’re still just sitting,
letting the wind move through the branches
like it has no other place to be.

Now, I’m back,
older,
sitting under the same tree,
but this time,
there’s something else—
something heavier,
a weight I didn’t carry before.

I’m thinking of him—
the way his voice feels like home,
how his laugh stays with me
long after he’s gone.
How I’ve come to expect him
like the seasons,
and yet, he’s not always there
when I need him.

The tree doesn’t ask for anything.
It just stands,
roots deep,
branches low,
as if it’s seen it all.

I wonder if it knows what love feels like,
the ache of wanting someone
who isn’t always ready to show up,
the silence that fills the space
between words,
between touches,
between everything you want
but can’t quite hold.

I lean against the bark,
feeling it solid beneath me,
thinking maybe it’s not about waiting—
maybe it’s about learning
how to stay,
even when the world keeps moving.

I’m a place
you can’t visit without leaving a part of yourself behind.
A room that doesn’t fit
everyone’s idea of comfort.

I’m not made for the ones
who look for easy exits,
who leave their shoes by the door
and never bother to unpack.

I’m the space you wander into,
thinking you can stay
just long enough to say you tried—
but I don’t do half-effort.
I don’t do surface-level.

You’ll find pieces of me in the corners,
in the silence between words,
in the weight that hangs when you stay too long.
Some will call it too much.
Some will say it’s nothing at all.

But if you’re not willing to sit with the hard parts,
to stand in the mess and find meaning in the chaos,
I’m not for you.

And that’s okay.
I’m not for everyone.
But for those who stay,
they’ll see the quiet strength
in everything that isn’t said.

I’ll hold the door,
say thank you,
ask if you made it home safe—
but don’t mistake that for softness.

I’ll listen,
nod at your problems,
give advice you didn’t ask for,
check in when you wouldn’t do the same—
but don’t think I need you.

I care,
but not enough to lose sleep.
I’ll show up,
but I’ll never beg.
I’ll love hard,
but the second I feel unappreciated—
I’m gone.

I’m the nicest person you’ll ever meet
until you make me regret it.
I don’t do fake,
I don’t do forced,
I don’t do second chances.

Call it cold,
call it cruel,
call it whatever helps you sleep at night.
I don’t care enough to correct you.

It’s not the love that hurts.
It’s knowing you gave it,
showed up,
kept showing up—
and they never did.

Have you ever watched someone you love
clap for a stranger,
smile wide,
nod proud,
for the same things
you’ve been grinding at alone?

Like it don’t count when it’s you.

Like your effort is invisible
until it belongs to someone else.

And you sit with it,
that quiet kind of pain,
the kind that don’t break you all at once
but eats at you slow.

Fuck a heartbreak.
It isn’t about losing someone.
It’s about realizing they were never really there.

We’re sitting too close,
but not close enough,
each of us shifting,
pretending not to notice
how the space between us
feels too wide and too small at the same time.

The TV’s on,
but neither of us is watching.
It’s just noise,
filling the silence that neither of us wants to break.
Your hand brushes mine,
and neither of us pulls away—
but we don’t move it, either.
Just leave it there,
hovering,
like we’re both waiting
for the other to decide
what comes next.

You glance at me,
and for a moment,
I think I’ll say something,
but the words are stuck,
and all I can hear
is the beat of my own pulse.
I laugh awkwardly,
and you do the same,
like we’re both trying
to make this normal,
trying to convince ourselves
that we know what we’re doing.

You slowly shift,
your arm moving carefully,
testing the space between us,
and I’m not sure if it’s a question
or just an instinct.
But I don’t pull away,
and I don’t know why.

When you finally settle in,
it feels too right and not right enough—
my shoulder against yours,
our knees brushing,
our breath a little faster
than it should be.
I feel the weight of your body
next to mine,
but it doesn’t feel heavy—
just real.

It’s awkward,
but in a way that makes me want to stay.
There’s no rush.
We’re both figuring it out,
one small, hesitant movement
at a time.