I wrote a love poem to my bed today.

I’m not saying things have gotten out of hand, but I’m also not saying they haven’t.

You are the one place

that does not ask for explanations.

Your sheets, a quiet tide,

pull me under without question,

away from the sharp light of morning.

I lie in your hollow,

where my body has worn its sorrow,

and you keep it—

a secret stitched in cotton,

a map of nights I could not rise.

Your pillow knows

the weight of my breathing,

the names I whisper

when no one is listening.

It knows how long

a person can stare at the ceiling

before memory becomes a country

they cannot leave,

a road they cannot stop walking.

The world keeps asking me

to move on,

to be stronger,

to find meaning in the loss.

You never do.

You simply hold

the shape grief has made of me,

night after night,

asking nothing in return.

You do not heal me.

You do not promise

that everything happens for a reason.

You do not try to make me better.

You only give me somewhere

to set the weight down,

somewhere soft enough

for a tired heart to rest awhile.

And some days,

that feels more like love

than anything else.

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A small companion piece to Never in Daylight, written from Miri’s perspective. If you haven’t read that piece, you can here.

In the quiet of night,
I learn how to breathe alone.

Your name gathers in me
like a love I was never meant to hold.

I watch you
from the edge of a dream—
so near
and still impossibly far.

Every smile wounds more cleanly than pain,
because I know
you will never say my name
the way I have heard it in dream.

I carry you
like a small, silent flame,
loving you
without the right to remain.

I love you
in the way I should not:
without touch,
without truth,
without anything the daylight would forgive.

You are the dream
I never get to keep.
I wake already falling,
lonely before my eyes are fully open.

I love you
where the light cannot reach,
where longing is whole
and nothing asks to be explained.

Even if you were never meant to be mine,
you will go on living
in the ruined chambers of my heart.

We pass each other
in borrowed lines,
two broken threads
that never learn to meet.

Your happiness
is my quiet fear,
because there is no world
that knows what to do with us here.

Even when fate places its hand on my shoulder
and tells me to let you go,
I love you more
than you will ever know.

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In the quiet of morning,
as the sky begins to glow,
I feel the clouds part slowly,
letting hidden colors show.

All the shadows that once held me
loosen, drift away,
and the silence turns to promise
at the breaking of the day.

There’s a whisper in the sunrise:
everything will change.
Pieces of heartache shifting,
finding shape, rearranged.

If the night was made of sorrow,
let the dawn rewrite the pain.
In the silence of tomorrow,
something hopeful still remains.

Though I carry traces of chaos,
I can see what we have sown,
blooming softly in the distance
along the edges of the road.

And the world begins to open
like a page not yet defined.
Every breath becomes a doorway
to a future redesigned.

There’s a warmth within the stillness,
steady, quiet, true.
What was broken bends toward healing,
becomes clearer, more pure.

In the silence of tomorrow,
there’s a light that leads me through.
Every step becomes a promise,
every moment something new.

And still I choose to move.

Even when the world collapses,
hope is written in the sky.
In the quiet between heartbeats,
something in us still survives.

Let the light remind you
what the darkness could never take.
Every dream that lay silent
stirs again each time you wake.

For anyone standing at the edge of something difficult.

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It’s too late for cleaner endings,
too late to pretend we weren’t anchored to the same wreck,
hands blistered from pulling at opposite ropes.

I’m tired of believing in better,
tired of arguing with hope as if it owes me something.
Some wars don’t end.
They just teach you how to love
with shrapnel still inside.

If you leave, I won’t stop you.
If you stay, I won’t make promises I can’t survive.

Just know this:
I would cross the fault line barefoot
if it meant standing where you stand.

There are days I don’t want peace.
I just want your hand,
warm and ordinary,
proof that tenderness didn’t die in the fighting.

I think of you more now—
when the nights are longest,
when the world feels like it’s asking too much
and offering nothing back.

Loving you isn’t brave.
It’s exhausted.
It’s choosing to reach anyway,
knowing the distance might not close,
knowing the battle might not end.

But still—
in the hard hours,
when mercy feels scarce
and God is very quiet,
I reach.

Not for victory.
Not for forever.
Just for you.

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Don’t hate the way the birds sing,
or the rise and fall of fleeting feelings.
Not everything lost needs to be found,
some things can drift, and rise.

Dancing with the darkness,
we’re still beautiful.
Let it tell you what the heart has always known.
Even if everyone seems lost,
we are never truly alone.

When daylight comes, soft and slow,
our shadows fade but never quite go.
And if you’re moving with the night at your heels,
you don’t need to run,
you don’t need to hide.

Every ache, every fall,
every quiet fear
is a note in the song we hold dear.
And in each breath,
each glance,
each trembling moment of being alive,
you are seen,
you are safe,
you are not alone.

—For my dear friend Thomas, with gratitude for the light you carry.

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There are nights the room dims
and I see you again,
standing in that doorway
with your whole life open in your hands,
as if you believed
I could hold any piece of it
without dropping the rest.

I almost said yes.
I almost became the future you offered.
But “almost” is the ghost
I sleep beside now.

They say timing is everything,
but they never tell you
how timing can be a villain,
arriving too early to trust,
too late to save,
too sharp to touch
without bleeding.

You steadied yourself
as if you thought love could root me.
But I was already half-gone,
a woman built of doorways,
not rooms.

You wanted forever.
I wanted a place where my pulse
didn’t sound like a warning.

There’s a particular kind of sorrow
that nests behind the ribs,
the sorrow of knowing
you were willing to build a life for two
while I was still trying
to survive being one.

And God—
the cruelty of truth
spoken too softly to ignore.

You were on your knees.
And I was the storm
that couldn’t stop breaking things.
I saw the life you imagined,
the home,
the morning light,
the name I would have taken,
and beneath all of it
I felt the tremor
of the ruin I’d bring.

“They would’ve said
I’d make a lovely bride,”
if only I weren’t always
losing myself in every memory,
if only I weren’t always
arriving late
to the moments meant to save me.

But you—
you’ll find someone
who doesn’t flinch at love,
who doesn’t treat tenderness
like something fragile and borrowed,
someone who won’t crack
under the weight
of being truly seen.

Me?
I carry what we almost were
like a stone in my pocket,
small,
cold,
and unbearably honest.

One for the promise,
two for the leaving,
that’s how I learned
that love isn’t always lost.

Sometimes it’s simply
the life you were brave enough
to walk away from
before it destroyed
the both of you.

Your question echoes after me,
a quiet ghost of the life I couldn’t choose.

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