In the quiet hours of the night, where shadows stretch longer than memories, I find pieces of myself scattered between silence and sorrow. There’s a strange kind of comfort in the dark — not because it’s warm, but because it doesn’t ask me to smile. It listens. It stays.

I do not chase the light anymore. The sun burns, and the glow feels foreign. I’ve learned to breathe in the dusk, to whisper my pain to the stars that no longer blink. Maybe they stopped watching. Maybe they were never there.

There is a certain softness in sadness—
like velvet dipped in dusk. It wraps around me, quiet and cold, but never cruel. I do not fear the dark anymore; it knows my name too well. We’ve become old friends, trading secrets under the hush of a sleepless sky.

If your heart feels a little too loud tonight, you can talk to me. No need for perfect words—just your presence is poetry enough. I’ll be here, quietly listening between the lines.