It's be like that

I'm outside looking in at the life we were supposed to be.

The family trips. The house with the squeaky stairs. The baby with your smile and my stubbornness.

You got all those things with a person who's not me.

And that's the heartbreak.

Not losing what we had

but watching someone else hold what I thought was waiting for me.

I see the pictures.

Matching pajamas on Christmas. Vacation photos by the ocean. A little hand wrapped around your finger.

Moments I rehearsed in my head like lines from a play I was certain I'd been cast in.

Instead, I'm sitting in the audience.

In the back.

Watching another man live a role I spent years preparing for.

Building a home from dreams that once carried my fingerprints.

And some days, I wonder if you ever remember.

If you ever glance across the dinner table and think about the blueprint we sketched on napkins and late-night phone calls.

Or if that version of us is buried so deep that I'm the only one who still knows where the grave is.

But life keeps teaching me that beautiful dreams aren't proof of ownership.

Some houses are built from your plans and still become someone else's address.

Some prayers leave your mouth with your name attached and come back answered for somebody else.

And maybe that's the hardest lesson.

I wasn't wrong about the dream.

I was wrong about who it belonged to.

So now I stand outside the window, looking in.

Not because I still want to come home.

But because every now and then I catch a glimpse of the life I imagined

and have to remind myself

that seeing something clearly

doesn't mean it was ever mine.

maybe

You grew in the middle of my garden

where nothing romantic was supposed to survive.

Just friendship.

Just two people

watering the same patch of ground

without asking what the roots were becoming.

Then one spring,

something strange appeared.

A single fruit

hanging from a branch

I swear wasn't there before.

Gold as temptation.

Heavy as consequence.

I named it Maybe.

And ever since,

the whole garden has felt different.

The birds sing rumors.

The wind keeps pushing me toward it.

Even the sunlight lingers

like it's waiting to see what I'll do.

You stand beneath the tree unaware,

talking about your day,

while I'm fighting the oldest battle known to man

whether desire is worth the exile.

Because I know what happens in stories.

One bite

and paradise becomes memory.

One confession

and suddenly every laugh has a history,

every silence has a meaning,

every friendship has a before and after.

So I keep my hands in my pockets.

Pretend I don't notice

how the fruit gets riper each time you smile.

Pretend I don't hear it calling my name

when the conversations stretch past midnight.

Pretend the branch isn't bending lower

with the weight of everything unsaid.

But temptation is patient.

It doesn't knock.

It grows.

And some nights

I swear the garden disappears altogether.

There's only the tree.

Only the fruit.

Only me standing beneath it,

starving.

Wondering if hunger

is easier to survive than loss.

doin just fine

Today was different than it was yesterday.

I saw your picture today and my heart didn’t sink.

No long pause.

No heavy chest.

No feeling like my whole world slipped

to the edge of the sink.

I just looked…

and kept it moving.

For the longest,

your face could ruin my whole day.

One memory of us

and I’d start drowning in old conversations,

replaying apologies

like they could change the ending.

But today?

you just looked like somebody I used to know 

A person I used to love deeply.

Im not saying I don’t care any more

But the motivation to see you smile  don't drive me anymore.

That feeling of calling you just to hear your voice no longer set inside me.

The desires to hug you tightly just so I can capture your smell and smell you throughout my day

I finally reached that quiet place

where your name don’t shake me.

Where I can miss what we had

without wishing it back.

And for the first time in a long time…

I’m doin just fine.

Depth

Your body speak fluent— curves saying everything before you even open your mouth.

Im not blind, I cansee it… the way attention follow you like it owe you something.

But I’m wondering, when the room go quiet, when the eyes stop clinging, when the compliments dry up…

who are you?

’Cause beauty loud, it introduce itself quick but substance? that take time to hear.

Can you hold a conversation without your looks finishing your sentences?

Can you touch my mind the same way your body trying to touch my focus?

I’m not knocking what you got

 I’m questioning what stay when all that fades out the frame.

Could Have Left Me Alone

You saw the gates were rusted shut,

the hinges stiff with years of pride,

but still you spoke in careful tones

until I let you step inside.

I didn’t just hand you the keys.

I cleared the rooms and swept the floors.

I made a home out of my chest

and opened all the heavy doors.

I gave you more than steady hands.

I gave you safety, gold, and bone.

A dangerous thing happened then

I started planning with you home.

I let your name affect my days,

my spending habits, peace of mind.

Built whole tomorrows from your words

like you had promised you were mine.

To wake a heart that learned to sleep

just to watch it starve for breath,

to take the harvest of my years

and leave a field resembling death

that kind of damage lingers long.

It settles deep inside the soul.

Because before you, loneliness

was painful… but at least controlled.

If love was not your true intent,

or if you knew you couldn’t stay,

you should have seen the “Closed” sign there

and simply turned the other way.

You should have left me untouched then.

Left all my walls and locks alone.

Don’t make a man believe again

if you can’t love him all the way home.

brick by brick

I built this life brick by brick, scar by scar, lesson by lesson.

I will not stand here arguing my worth with someone surrounded by proof.

My character speaks louder than any defense I could ever make. My actions have already said enough.

If you cannot recognize the value of my presence, then perhaps you will learn it through the weight of my absence.

not me

I miss the version of me

that used to feel things fully.

Back when laughter came easy,

when music sounded alive,

when my dreams had color

instead of instructions,

when even my words

carried passion whenever I spoke.

Now everything feels routine—

wake up, work, survive the day,

pretend I’m still connected

to the things I once loved.

The passion left quietly.

No goodbye speech.

No slammed doors.

Just a slow disappearance

I didn’t notice

until everything started turning gray.

I stare at old hobbies

like strangers I used to know.

Pick them up for a moment,

then put them right back down

because my heart no longer reaches for them

the way it used to.

And happiness—

that’s become something distant.

Like hearing people laugh

from another room

while I stand outside the door

trying to remember

what was so funny.

I keep telling myself

maybe I’m just tired.

Maybe this feeling will pass.

Maybe one morning

I’ll wake up

and life will feel alive again.

But right now,

I’m just existing

in the space

between who I was

and whoever I’m becoming