u/Wilder_nesss

I am my home

no walls, no name,

Just quite strength

that stays the same.

I leave, I roam,

yet still I find

the door inside

my own mind.

There are days

when the world asks for more

more effort, more speed, more becoming.

​

And then there are moments

that arrive like soft rain,

when nothing is required.

​

No plans to chase,

no mountains to move,

no words to prove.

​

Just sunlight lingering on a wall,

a quiet cup growing cold,

the breeze turning pages meant to read.

​

In doing nothing,

time loosens its grip.

The heart remembers its natural rhythm.

​

And somehow,

without achieving a single thing,

the soul feels full.

​

Perhaps happiness is not always found

in the places we reach,

but in the rare, gentle pauses

​

where we simply exist,

unhurried, unclaimed,

and wonderfully enough.

The unsent letters,

are what word becomes

when held too long in the throat

and learns to bruise.

​

I wrote to you, not once but many times

in a room, that forgot how to breathe.

Each word arrived dressed in certainty,

then undressed itself before it could be sealed.

​

There is a particular ache in not sending.

A second-hand heartbreak

not for what was said,

but for what survived unsaid.

​

I kept those in drawers,

some clenched in books,

like wounded animals.

But they were never still,

they pulsed at night,

rehearsing alternate histories

where I was less afraid

and you were less distant.

​

Some letters rot into apology.

Some sharpen into confession.

Some become relics of a version of me

but chose preservation instead.

​

And the cruelest part,

they never stop arriving.

Even when silence has signed its name,

even after time has pretended closure.

​

Thus, I live among unsent letters:

words that learned to haunt,

ink that remembers warmth,

and all the versions of goodbye

that never agreed to end

I don’t know if I miss you
or simply keep you in thought,
as if your name lives quietly
in every moment I’ve got.

Time moves, but you don’t fade;
you linger in what I do,
and I can’t tell if it’s missing you
or just being used to you.

I go on with my days unspoken,
yet you return in the view,
so maybe it’s not missing at all,
just thinking, always of you.

You have become a shadow
that knows my shape too well,
because you are not here,
yet you are everywhere I go.

There are moments when I wonder whether the heart and the body are destined to want different things. My heart has often been drawn to people whose presence felt like home, whose words lingered in my thoughts long after conversations ended, whose kindness softened my defenses, and whose understanding made me feel less empty. Yet, despite the depth of that connection, my body remained quiet, untouched by the urgency of desire. Then there were others who could unsettle me with a glance, whose presence filled me with anticipation and longing, whose touch seemed to awaken something instinctive and undeniable within me, but that connection somehow remained confined to the body, with no depth.

Living between these two experiences has taught me how complex one can be. Emotional intimacy without desire felt like a melody missing its rhythm. Physical attraction without emotional connection can be intoxicating, yet fleeting, like a flame that burns brightly but quickly fades. What I have been searching for is not merely love or desire alone, but the rare union of both - the person who can quiet my mind and quicken my pulse, who can make me feel understood and wanted at the same time. Perhaps that is why such connections feel so extraordinary when they happen: they bring together what so often seems divided, allowing the heart and body to speak the same language at last.

This contradiction has followed me through many encounters, leaving me suspended between tenderness and passion, between comfort and craving. It is a strange kind of loneliness to find pieces of what you seek in different people but never the whole. You begin to question yourself, wondering whether your expectations are unrealistic or whether true harmony between emotional and physical connection is simply rare. Yet despite the disappointment, hope persists. The heart continues to search for someone who can inspire both affection and desire, someone whose touch carries meaning and whose understanding carries warmth.

Perhaps that is why some people remain unforgettable. Not because they gave us everything we needed, but because they revealed how deeply we are capable of feeling. The ones who touched our hearts showed us the beauty of emotional intimacy; the ones who stirred our bodies revealed the power of desire. Between them, they taught us what we are truly longing for: a connection where neither the heart nor the body has to compromise, where love is not divided into separate parts but experienced as a complete and harmonious whole. Until such a connection appears, we carry lessons within us, the memory of those who made us feel deeply.

I wanted to escape the monotony,

but how do you escape

the chaos that slowly made a home within you?

Day by day, it consumed me so quietly

I never noticed the becoming.

Until one morning,

I woke up as everything

I once promised myself

I’d never be.

Night loosens its collar

and spills into the streets,

a slow-burning secret

no one intends to keep.

Glasses clink into confession,

laughter leans too close,

and every promise made here

evaporates by dawn.

Perfume, sweat, and gaze-

a holy trinity of want,

where virtue takes a backseat

and desire takes the wheel.

We dance on the edge of excess,

call it freedom, call it fall,

naming our hunger poetry

so it doesn’t sound like a need.

But in the quiet after

when the music forgets our names,

we gather up the fragments

of who we almost became.

Between all the noise of becoming,

I crave a quiet corner

where rest isn’t guilt,

silence isn’t broken,

and I don’t have to be anything at all.