404.P03M.3X3

Telescopic Love

Admiring him from a distance, Stealing a glance or two, Seems enough for the day, Keeping my small (tiny) heart content, A smile on his face makes mine magically appear, Out of nowhere, just like Houdini, He has my attention and love, Even if it is not promised to last long, Even if he doesn't know it, I'm happy he's happy, This shall be with me, Until I make myself worthy of his time and love, Oh! When my time comes, I will not hesitate, But all I can do right now, Is to admire him from a distance, For how long can something hurt you [again and again]? As long as you love it with all your heart, But never be able to hold close to you. Those accidental touches, Makes me wish those were longer

I Want That Someone

Who do you look for in a crowd? To share your drinks, kisses and nights with, To lay your head, on their lap after a long day, Sweaty bodies, sore muscles, smiling through it all, Someone who knows you in and out, Knows how to tempt fate by teasing you with just a touch, Testing your control and patience at a party, While they sway their hips to music you both love, Holding them close until the rest of the world is nothing but a blur, Knowing that you would go crazy over them as the days pass, Increasing love, lust and affection for them, Being loved back in ways you could never imagine, All that love, just for you, all yours. I want that someone

Mi Culo Alto

My heart says shoot your shot, But I don't, I like the way we are right now, I'm happy with the way I glance at you, My gaze lingering on your face, With a big fat smile plastered like a tattoo, My eyes, they look at you, like you're mine, Mine to hug, mine to kiss and mine to hold, But you are not mine, at least not yet, I hope for it to happen one day, With no heart of mine stopping me, Adorning you with kisses, Poems dedicated to you, Written for you, each word uttering your name, Your brown eyes, something I can stare into for hours with no rest, Simply because I adore you with all I have, Your fingers in my open hair, so wild and so rough, Find your girl before I steal you off the market, 'Cause, once you're mine, you're mine alone, Proudly telling the world, "he's mine!", There's a beautiful echo in those words, Pride and love in every letter, Burning desire to let you write your poems, On my body with that witty tongue of yours, Lining every curve and stroke perfectly, Dipping the brush in the watery ink, Deep within the bottle to get every single drop, Before bringing it back to trace and shape, Ending your piece with a dot of a kiss.

The Street He Never Glanced

and yet she waited there, every day.

She didn't just tell a story, She left her teeth marks on reality, She left her eyes in his memory, Her hugs in his embrace, Her smile stayed in the space between his jokes, Even if he never looked long enough to see. She wasn’t loud about it Just present. Soft. Watching. She noticed things He didn’t know he revealed. Like how he pulled at his sleeves when he was nervous, Or how he paused before speaking hard truths. She’d walk a few steps behind, So he’d never feel followed. Always offering help Before he even thought to ask Because she knew he wouldn’t. She memorized the exact sound Of his half-laugh. And saved his favorite memes Without ever sending them. She never asked for space in his world, But carved out corners of her own Just in case he ever visited. She wonders If he remembers the way she looked at him Not with expectation, But like he was a sunrise She couldn’t interrupt. Did he feel her fingers When they brushed his in a group photo? Did he carry her laugh In the quiet parts of his day? She doesn't want to be unforgettable. Just remembered, maybe In the way he likes his coffee Or the way she always knew when to go quiet. She never needed to be his home. Just a street he once walked And paused Because something there felt kind. She doesn’t know if she mattered. If the softness she left Ever sank into his skin. If her eyes still live in a corner of his memory, Or if she vanished the moment she turned away. But she loved him. From a distance. Carefully. Deliberately. And maybe, just maybe That was enough to leave a mark.

Cold Coffee and Confessions

Because the coffee stayed unshared, grew cold with time...

i’ll still be hIs even if he walks away, there’s no way to go back from a guy like him, the one and only. my sun and the moon, smile so warm like sunLight, lighting up my world in the dark like moonlight, it’s july already, and sOmehow, i still haven’t asked you out for a coffee, maybe it’s too soon to cross that line, or maybe i’m just scared you’ll say no, but eVery late-night thought pulls me closer, every sunrise makes me wish i’d tried, because you’re the quiet in my chaos, the comfort i’ve nEver known, you’re the laugh i replay when nights are cold, the dream i dare not speak aloud, you’re the reason songs sound sweeter, the pause in time when you look my waY, your name is the melody i hum unconsciously, your presence makes every ordinary day feel new, i wOnder if you see it in my eyes, how every word i say is a careful dance, how yoUr voice lingers long after you’re gone, if time’s slipping by this fast, then maybe it’s time i finally Say it would you?, would you share a coffee and a quiet mOment, and Maybe a piece of my heart, too? because loving you quietly is no longer enoUgh, and i mean it so muCh my Heart chose you

The Rim of Your Cup

Because the coffee grew cold, and its scent outlasted us.

It was never about the coffee, But the warmth of shared silences, The way our hands almost touched, Over steaming mugs and unspoken words. In that little café, Time felt like a gentle pause, A breath held between us, As we navigated the spaces, Where our thoughts intertwined. I wanted to tell you About the dreams I tucked away, Like sugar packets in my bag, Sweet and unassuming, Waiting for the right moment to spill. But the words got lost In the froth of our conversations, Drowned in laughter and the clinking, Of cups that held our secrets, Like fragile porcelain. So here’s my confession, I loved you in the quiet moments, In the way you stirred your coffee With a distant look in your eyes, As if you were searching for something, Just beyond the rim of your cup. And though we never crossed that line, I hope you felt it too... The unspoken bond, That lingered in the air, Like the rich aroma of coffee, Long after the last sip. Maybe one day, We’ll find ourselves back there, In that cozy corner, With the world outside fading away, And the courage to say, All the things we left unsaid.

He Never Knew the Recipe

I ache for his love the way pasta absorbs salt not because it craves it, but because something softens when the water is just warm enough. He moves with that quiet, athletic certainty shoulders broad with storms he never speaks of, eyes the color of autumn bark, steeped in thought. He doesn’t ask for attention, he just breathes, and the whole room listens. He drinks his coffee black, as if bitterness is a language only he understands, No sugar, no cream, just bold, honest intensity, the kind that makes you want to ask questions just to hear how the answers sound in his voice. And god, the way he speaks slow, deliberate, like knowledge is something sacred, and every word is a prayer, each sentence is a door he’s letting you walk through, if you're patient enough to wait for the key. I burn dinner sometimes, not because I forget, but because I get lost watching how he moves without needing permission. How he exists like he’s carved from certainty, and silence... I keep making too much pasta, Maybe because some small, foolish part of me, hopes he’ll sit across from me one evening, unwind enough to stay. To teach me not just facts, but the rhythm of his world how he sees it, how he thinks, what he holds sacred. I want to learn everything from him. Not because I’m empty, but because when he explains things, they feel like secrets being handed to me gently, like knowledge that remembers your name. He doesn’t talk about love. I don’t ask. But I see it maybe in the way he passes the salt without needing to be told. In how he remembers how I like my food, even if he never eats with me. I don’t know if he feels the same, but I hope... somewhere between the boiling pot and my quiet hands, between the caffeine in his cup and the warmth in my gaze, he senses it. That I would offer everything. That this isn’t just about dinner. That this is love, served quietly, seasoned with hope, waiting... for him to taste.

September

September, if I had to call you something, I'd call you the month of calmness, Fresh starts and exploring new charts, Composure and home to the reserved, The feeling of hugs in your autumn falls, The soft browns and beiges in every corner, Becoming your eyes and ears, Something to lean on, fall asleep like there's no tomorrow. You’re the month that feels like a warm hug, If seasons were described in rain, Summer's your drizzle, And you're his hurricane. You're the warmth between shifting winds, The last soft kiss before the world gets cold. The kind of quiet that makes you miss someone you haven’t even said goodbye to. I think if love had a weather pattern, it would look a lot like you gentle at first, but impossible not to notice when it leaves. You’re the month that makes me want to write, To spill my heart onto paper, To capture the way you make me feel In every word, every line, every verse. You’re the calm before the storm, The promise of something beautiful, That lingers in the air, Like the scent of fallen leaves And the whisper of a breeze. You’re the month that reminds me That even in the chaos of life, There’s beauty in the stillness, A chance to breathe, to reflect, To find solace in the changing leaves. You’re the month that holds my heart, A gentle reminder that love, Like the seasons, is ever-changing, But always, always beautiful. A quiet goodbye we never gave, But always carried...

You Wouldn’t Know It By Looking at Her

You wouldn’t know it by looking at her how many unfinished thoughts she carries like splinters beneath the surface of a conversation. She listens the way some people mumble, quietly, desperately, never expecting to be heard back. She makes room where there is none, Fills silence without speaking, Her presence hums, in the corners of rooms, where no one else looks. She has never asked for much, She has learned not to, Need is a dangerous thing, when you've had to make your own warmth, in the middle of winter, with nothing but memory, and a soft voice you forgot was yours. She doesn’t collapse anymore. She pauses. She adjusts. She folds herself smaller and calls it survival. Calls it grace. Calls it fine. She is the kind of tired that cannot be undone with rest the kind built from being the constant in everyone else’s storm and never being asked how much it cost her to stay that still for that long. She leaves pieces of herself in small places a joke she knows will land, a look that says “go on, I’m listening,” a pause before “it’s okay, I'm okay” when it isn’t. And when she says she’s fine, you believe her. Because you want to. Because the alternative is realizing no one ever stopped long enough to see how much she’s carrying just to make you feel lighter. You wouldn’t know it by looking at her. But sometimes, she doesn’t speak because there’s nothing left that hasn’t already been given away.

I Noticed Her Anyway

the girl who always paused.

She wasn’t loud. She didn’t ask for attention. In fact, I almost missed her tucked between louder laughter and people who knew how to take up space, without asking permission. But something about her made me stop. It wasn’t what she said it was the way she said less. The way her silence wasn’t empty. It was listening. It was offering. It was holding stories she didn’t think anyone would stay long enough to hear. She had that look in her eye the one people carry after they’ve been interrupted too many times, and learned to finish conversations in their head instead of out loud. She didn’t rush her words. She measured them. Not because she was unsure, but because she understood what it meant to be careful with truth. She sat like someone who had held too much and didn’t want to spill it on anyone else. Like someone who made herself smaller so no one else had to be uncomfortable. And yet, there was something in her pause that felt louder than the whole room. Like she was always almost saying the thing that would change everything, but only if you cared enough, to ask again, after she said “it’s fine.” I don’t know her story. I just know I noticed her anyway. The way her hands moved when she talked, as if translating feelings into air. The way her voice softened at the exact moment the world got too sharp. The girl who always paused not because she didn’t know what to say, but because she was trying to decide if anyone in the room would be kind enough to hear it all.

You’d Know If You Knew Her

She laughs now. Loud, lopsided, the kind of laugh that doesn’t ask permission before crashing into a room. Not everyone gets the joke but that’s the thing. She doesn’t care if they do. She’s not performing anymore. She tells stories that make no sense, jokes that trip over themselves halfway through and grins like it’s the funniest thing in the world because it is. To her. And to the ones who know her best, who’ve learned to connect the dots between the chaos and know exactly where her punchline is hiding. She still says, "I know you know me, you'll understand why I said that." And if you don’t? That’s fine. She’s no longer wasting breath on people who need her to translate her joy into something smaller. She doesn't flinch anymore when the silence in a room gets heavy. She’s learned how to breathe through it without anyone noticing. How to pull herself back without a sound. How to stop the unraveling before it begins, like some kind of private magic she taught herself on nights she never talks about. She’s smiling in photos now. Really smiling. But only the ones who’ve seen her up close the ones who remember how her lips used to curl just enough to pretend... they’re the ones who know the difference. She no longer apologizes for being too much, or not enough, or whatever version of herself someone once asked her to be. She is wildly, quietly free. She cries less. Not because she feels less. But because she’s stopped breaking in places no one bothers to clean up. And when the world tightens its grip, when the room gets too loud and the air too thin she has people who know how to look at her without saying a word, and still remind her that she’s not alone in it anymore. She is the girl who once paused. And now she speaks in laughter and doesn’t care if you’re keeping up.