u/bubblegumLarry

That bumblebee,
Returned to me —
The very next day.
*
His dusty body,
Still warm and fuzzy —
His honey was far away.
*
He bounced through air,
Without a care —
Like sunshine learned to fly.
*
Then on my thumb,
A sudden hum —
A tiny, silky sigh.
*
He didn’t speak,
Or make a peep —
But still, I understood:
*
Some hearts must roam,
And buzz alone —
Just searching for the good.

That bumblebee,
Returned to me —
The very next day.
*
His dusty body,
Still warm and fuzzy —
His honey was far away.
*
He bounced through air,
Without a care —
Like sunshine learned to fly.
*
Then on my thumb,
A sudden hum —
A tiny, silky sigh.
*
He didn’t speak,
Or make a peep —
But still, I understood:
*
Some hearts must roam,
And buzz alone —
Just searching for the good.

A bumble bee,
Sat on my knee —
Dreaming about his honey.

He looked at me,
With total glee —
His fuzzy coat all sunny.

With fluttering wings,
His small heart sings —
And up his body goes.

A swoosh and a woosh,
A zip and a push —
Away to the fields he blows.

He didn’t say,
A word that day —
But left me to wonder apart:

Would you be
the one for she —
To softly cherish her heart?

A bumble bee,
Sat on my knee —
Dreaming about his honey.

He looked at me,
With total glee —
His fuzzy coat all sunny.

With fluttering wings,
His small heart sings —
And up his body goes.

A swoosh and a woosh,
A zip and a push —
Away to the fields he blows.

He didn’t say,
A word that day —
But left me to wonder apart:

Would you be
the one for she —
To softly cherish her heart?

A boy and a girl set out to play,
Hand in hand,
they laughed all day.

Until the sun became the moon—
All of a sudden,
goodbye came too soon.

They didn’t fret,
they held no worry,
For both well knew, there was no hurry.

Tomorrow would rise
to greet them again,
Picking up
right where they left off then.

They locked their eyes,
a silent pair,
With quiet smiles
in the midnight air.

The stars hung low
with a softened glow,
They watched
the purple shadows grow.

As if the morning already waited.
The summer twilight gently faded.

One last squeeze,
One shy “please”—
“I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

A boy and a girl set out to play,
Hand in hand,
they laughed all day.

Until the sun became the moon—
All of a sudden,
goodbye came too soon.

They didn’t fret,
they held no worry,
For both well knew, there was no hurry.

Tomorrow would rise
to greet them again,
Picking up
right where they left off then.

They locked their eyes,
a silent pair,
With quiet smiles
in the midnight air.

The stars hung low
with a softened glow,
They watched
the purple shadows grow.

As if the morning already waited.
The summer twilight gently faded.

One last squeeze,
One shy “please”—
“I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

The funny thing is,
I thought I was writing about her.

Rain.
Flowers.
Soft little moments
I could tuck inside poems
without admitting
what was actually happening to me.

But those poems were never about romance.

They were symptoms.

A burnt-out chef
checking if anything inside him
still bled warm.

The shut down happened decades ago.

She was a doctor.
Audrey Hepburn in scrubs.
Two souls interwoven.
Until —
She cheated. I stayed.
Then —
Every Christmas present felt like pity.
Birthdays — pfft.
I turned to my kitchen.
And went to work.
Eventually, I worked her out of my life, too.

Every relationship after that
ran the same script:

Show up.
Say the right shit.
Don’t get attached.
Fuck.
Leave something sweet in the morning.
Go to work.

Function. Produce. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Feelings became inefficiencies.
Tenderness became liability.
Loneliness became routine.

And honestly?
Routine works.

So —
You repeat until you can do it blindfolded.

You forget.

Until somebody soft
walks into your head
and starts turning lights back on.

That’s when shit gets real.
Like,
Really real.

Not with her.
With me.

Because the poet came back hungry.
He was the little bastard who scored us the doctor.

And the chef hated him for it.

So now the chef
Hated how every laugh
sounded like hope.
Hated how words started spilling out again.
Hated catching himself caring.

The poems got prettier
while my head got uglier.

That’s the part nobody sees.

I wasn’t writing love poems.

I was documenting
emotional rigor mortis wearing off.

Real ugly shit, too.

Like blood returning to a frozen hand.
Pain first.
Then feeling.

And every line
was the sound of two men fighting inside me:

One saying,
“Shut it down before it ruins us.”

The other saying,
“I’d rather feel something than survive forever.”

The worst part?

I still don’t know which one was right.

The funny thing is,
I thought I was writing about her.

Rain.
Flowers.
Soft little moments
I could tuck inside poems
without admitting
what was actually happening to me.

But those poems were never about romance.

They were symptoms.

A burnt-out chef
checking if anything inside him
still bled warm.

The shut down happened decades ago.

She was a doctor.
Audrey Hepburn in scubs.
Two souls interwoven.
Until —
She cheated. I stayed.
Then —
Every Christmas present felt like pity.
Birthdays — pfft.
I turned to my kitchen.
And went to work.
Eventually, I worked her out of my life, too.

Every relationship after that
ran the same script:

Show up.
Say the right shit.
Don’t get attached.
Fuck.
Leave something sweet in the morning.
Go to work.

Function. Produce. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Feelings became inefficiencies.
Tenderness became liability.
Loneliness became routine.

And honestly?
Routine works.

So —
You repeat until you can do it blindfolded.

You forget.

Until somebody soft
walks into your head
and starts turning lights back on.

That’s when shit gets real.
Like,
Really real.

Not with her.
With me.

Because the poet came back hungry.
He was the little bastard who scored us the doctor.

And the chef hated him for it.

So now the chef
Hated how every laugh
sounded like hope.
Hated how words started spilling out again.
Hated catching himself caring.

The poems got prettier
while my head got uglier.

That’s the part nobody sees.

I wasn’t writing love poems.

I was documenting
emotional rigor mortis wearing off.

Real ugly shit, too.

Like blood returning to a frozen hand.
Pain first.
Then feeling.

And every line
was the sound of two men fighting inside me:

One saying,
“Shut it down before it ruins us.”

The other saying,
“I’d rather feel something than survive forever.”

The worst part?

I still don’t know which one was right.

She found the poem buried
some where between midnight
and another sleepless scroll.

Ashtray heartbreak.
Kitchen confessions.
A tired man trying to cauterize love out of himself.

And for the first time,
she understood what the chef never said out loud:

He was never afraid of her.

He was afraid of how alive he became around her.

So she came back quietly.

Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.

Just:
“Hey you.”

And somehow those two words hit harder than every goodbye he’d rehearsed alone.

The chef tried pretending he didn’t care.

Still sharpened knives too hard.
Still smoked cigarettes
down to burnt fingertips.
Still wore exhaustion like armor.

But the poet—
that skinny little bastard—
sat upright immediately.

Hope flooding back through scar tissue.

Because she stayed.

Not perfectly.
Not magically.
Not without fear.

But she stayed honestly.

And slowly,
the war inside him ended.

The chef still woke before sunrise,
still cursed at ticket machines,
still carried burn scars up both forearms like old scripture.

But now—

the poet stood beside him instead of against him.

One taught him how to survive.

The other taught him why.

And somewhere between
butter hitting hot steel
and her laughter
filling quiet rooms,
he finally became whole.

Not softened.

Not weakened.

Just alive in all the places he used to bury.

I had a feeling you’d say that.
So I came prepared.
I’m done letting you live inside my head.
I’m done rereading comment sections like crime scenes,
trying to decode who you were with me
versus who you were everywhere else.
I’ve seen enough these past months.
You gave strangers pieces of yourself you swore didn’t exist,
then looked at me like I was crazy for noticing.
Maybe you never owed me exclusivity.
Maybe I was just a placeholder.
Another lonely idiot kept warm between accounts.
God, I hope that isn’t true.
Because that means the most honest connection I’ve had in years
was a passing moment to someone who barely remembers my name.
I hate that I let you see me.
I hate that after twenty years of numbing out,
you made me feel everything at once,
leaving a grown man sitting here trying not to cry
over someone I can’t even prove was real.
That’s the part that kills me.
Not the jealousy.
Not the confusion.
Just the realization that I finally opened my heart —
to someone who only loved being loved.
And the worst part?
I still hope I’m wrong.
I hate what you’ve done to hope.
You win.
I’m done.
Peace.