Jaanuu
Favoured Frenzy
How many times must I write you,
before the ink refuses me?
Each word I reach for trembles,
because your voice arrives first.
("Actions speak louder than words"
Speak. Speak. Speak.)
It echoes in the narrow rooms of thought,
where silence once belonged to me,
and I, like a traveller,
borrow language I cannot keep.
I ask myself in quiet trials,
why love deserts me halfway,
why my heart opens like a door
only to close before warmth enters.
My feelings flicker like a weak lamp,
faithless to their own promise,
present for a moment of mercy,
then gone without farewell.
I have stood many nights wondering,
why I speak of you to others,
yet cannot cross the small distance
between my breath and your name.
Five minutes, I know, would save me,
you would forgive, as you always did,
but fear stands like a silent judge,
asking what right I have to return.
For what if I wound you again,
with hands that do not obey me,
with a mind that fractures itself
and calls it reason.
Guilt is a slow and faithful companion,
it walks beside me without rest,
and regret builds its cold house
in the marrow of my days.
This unrest within me is a storm,
without language, without shore,
and I refuse to drag another soul
into its blind and circling ruin.
You deserved a quiet life,
not this restless and broken tide,
not a heart that cannot explain
its own betrayals to itself.
Even I cannot read my thoughts,
they scatter like frightened birds,
and I am left holding shadows
that do not answer when called.
My joys melted without notice,
like ice forgotten in warm hands,
long before I understood
I had already let them go.
If there were another life promised,
I would beg for a gentler heart,
one that stays, one that holds,
one that does not abandon love midway.
But this life is the only sentence,
and I must serve it awake,
with the knowledge of what I broke
and what I could not become.
You return to me in small ways,
in the kindness of ordinary moments,
in every offered cup of coffee,
where I still hear you ask for tea.
And I stand there, quietly condemned,
by a memory softer than judgment,
knowing cruelty is not always loud,
sometimes it is simply absence.
They say such love is not real,
a passing illusion of lonely minds,
and I tried to believe them once,
to lessen the weight of you.
But how could I reduce you
to something so easily dismissed,
when even now you remain
the truest thing I have lost.
So I called reality a lie instead,
and hid within that contradiction,
where nothing demanded truth
and nothing could accuse me.
Each time we meet again in words,
I feel the old wound reopen,
as if time itself refuses
to seal what I have undone.
You deserve distance from me,
a dignity I could not give,
so do not come close again,
even if my heart reaches first.
Your kindness burns like thorns,
gentle, yet impossible to bear,
for it reminds me too clearly
of the harm I carried to you.
Do not love me again, I whisper,
not because you are wrong,
but because I cannot protect
what is fragile in your hands.
I punish myself in quiet ways,
replaying every unfinished moment,
until even memory grows tired
of my endless confession.
Love was not meant to happen,
or so the world likes to say,
yet how does one refuse
what arrives without permission?
Someone once told me simply,
that feeling needs no proof,
that whether near or distant,
it remains what it is.
And that truth has followed me,
like a question without end,
asking what becomes of love
when one is unable to hold it.
So here I stand before you,
not asking to be taken back,
but asking, with what little remains,
to be forgiven in your silence.
Forgive the broken design of me,
the sudden storms and empty skies,
the love that came as a promise
but lived like a contradiction.
I did feel you, truly, deeply,
even when I felt nothing else,
and perhaps that is my tragedy,
to know and still be unable.
If there is mercy in this world,
let it be this one small thing,
that you remember me not as harm,
but as someone who tried and failed.
And I will carry the rest alone,
like a quiet, rightful burden,
loving you from a distance
that finally does you no harm.
And still, I weep in silence,
for a heart that could not stay,
for a love that was real enough,
yet never learned how to remain.
Yours
Lovingly.
before the ink refuses me?
Each word I reach for trembles,
because your voice arrives first.
("Actions speak louder than words"
Speak. Speak. Speak.)
It echoes in the narrow rooms of thought,
where silence once belonged to me,
and I, like a traveller,
borrow language I cannot keep.
I ask myself in quiet trials,
why love deserts me halfway,
why my heart opens like a door
only to close before warmth enters.
My feelings flicker like a weak lamp,
faithless to their own promise,
present for a moment of mercy,
then gone without farewell.
I have stood many nights wondering,
why I speak of you to others,
yet cannot cross the small distance
between my breath and your name.
Five minutes, I know, would save me,
you would forgive, as you always did,
but fear stands like a silent judge,
asking what right I have to return.
For what if I wound you again,
with hands that do not obey me,
with a mind that fractures itself
and calls it reason.
Guilt is a slow and faithful companion,
it walks beside me without rest,
and regret builds its cold house
in the marrow of my days.
This unrest within me is a storm,
without language, without shore,
and I refuse to drag another soul
into its blind and circling ruin.
You deserved a quiet life,
not this restless and broken tide,
not a heart that cannot explain
its own betrayals to itself.
Even I cannot read my thoughts,
they scatter like frightened birds,
and I am left holding shadows
that do not answer when called.
My joys melted without notice,
like ice forgotten in warm hands,
long before I understood
I had already let them go.
If there were another life promised,
I would beg for a gentler heart,
one that stays, one that holds,
one that does not abandon love midway.
But this life is the only sentence,
and I must serve it awake,
with the knowledge of what I broke
and what I could not become.
You return to me in small ways,
in the kindness of ordinary moments,
in every offered cup of coffee,
where I still hear you ask for tea.
And I stand there, quietly condemned,
by a memory softer than judgment,
knowing cruelty is not always loud,
sometimes it is simply absence.
They say such love is not real,
a passing illusion of lonely minds,
and I tried to believe them once,
to lessen the weight of you.
But how could I reduce you
to something so easily dismissed,
when even now you remain
the truest thing I have lost.
So I called reality a lie instead,
and hid within that contradiction,
where nothing demanded truth
and nothing could accuse me.
Each time we meet again in words,
I feel the old wound reopen,
as if time itself refuses
to seal what I have undone.
You deserve distance from me,
a dignity I could not give,
so do not come close again,
even if my heart reaches first.
Your kindness burns like thorns,
gentle, yet impossible to bear,
for it reminds me too clearly
of the harm I carried to you.
Do not love me again, I whisper,
not because you are wrong,
but because I cannot protect
what is fragile in your hands.
I punish myself in quiet ways,
replaying every unfinished moment,
until even memory grows tired
of my endless confession.
Love was not meant to happen,
or so the world likes to say,
yet how does one refuse
what arrives without permission?
Someone once told me simply,
that feeling needs no proof,
that whether near or distant,
it remains what it is.
And that truth has followed me,
like a question without end,
asking what becomes of love
when one is unable to hold it.
So here I stand before you,
not asking to be taken back,
but asking, with what little remains,
to be forgiven in your silence.
Forgive the broken design of me,
the sudden storms and empty skies,
the love that came as a promise
but lived like a contradiction.
I did feel you, truly, deeply,
even when I felt nothing else,
and perhaps that is my tragedy,
to know and still be unable.
If there is mercy in this world,
let it be this one small thing,
that you remember me not as harm,
but as someone who tried and failed.
And I will carry the rest alone,
like a quiet, rightful burden,
loving you from a distance
that finally does you no harm.
And still, I weep in silence,
for a heart that could not stay,
for a love that was real enough,
yet never learned how to remain.
Yours
Lovingly.
