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Table of Contents — Section 1: The Spark & The Pull

(Italicized titles are prose reflections or story passages.)

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→Section 2: Falling In, Falling Hard
→Section 3: The Struggle & The Tension
→Section 4: The Breaking Point
→Section 5: Grief & Longing
→Section 6: Acceptance & Transformation

Section 1: The Spark & The Pull

(Letters I once sent, never knowing they would become the beginning of everything.)

“You remind me of someone I never met before. Maybe it’s the smile, or the eyes. Or maybe it’s someone from a past life. Whatever it is, it makes me curious. Are you curious? If you were fire, I would gladly touch it, well knowingly I’d get burnt. And if you are indeed fire, I want to give you something to burn. Because what’s a fire without anything to burn? Or maybe I’m the fire. My mother always told me not to play with fire. But if I don’t play with fire, how will I know what it feels like?”

“As if the spell couldn’t get any stronger, the mere presence of you is like a wildfire out of
control. No amount of water can quell a volcano that’s decided to erupt.
There’s not much that can suppress the inner workings of the earth. Only time.
You can either run away, if you can, or be consumed by the fire.
Landscapes will change, sometimes for the better, and sometimes for the worst.
But eventually, time makes everything new again, lush as an evergreen forest, full of life.”

“I see what’s happening. I have your attention, and it’s causing you hesitation or maybe it’s guilt. Or maybe it’s no longer an innocent exchange of smiles? Maybe now there’s something more. I could explore the more with you. I promise not to take anything we discover together. Come close but stay away. Come close..”

“You remind me of a flower [name]. To snatch you from the bush would be selfish and thoughtless. But if I did snatch you, I could smell you everyday. If you stayed with your roots, you would bloom every season, and I’d be waiting. Or maybe I can dig out the roots, and take you away.”

“I want to talk with you for hours, until you say something I don’t like. That way I can stop thinking about you. Either that, or long enough until the spell is broken, or my heart is broken. I would take anything instead of waiting a lifetime.”

“Look at you, looking at me with those sheltered eyes. You can almost hide – a slight raised eyebrow like a fencer’s high guard. You’re capable of delivering a final blow, but I think you’re bluffing. I could close the distance while you’re thinking, use the element of surprise – but I’ll continue watching.”

“I won’t lose the potential of you for a sort of short-term achievement. I won’t pollute what is pristine. Time and love will manifest what is true. That is my wish.”

“How fires can help grow trees is what you, the substance, mean to me. A fire is necessary for the rebirth of a forest. The two are one. You are the one.”

“I miss you so much sometimes. But it’s a good miss, not a tortured miss. The type of miss all people should experience in their lives. If all could feel this miss, then life wouldn’t be such a miss at times.”

“You have the resilience and grace of a butterfly. Chaotic yet ordered, a butterfly enchants those who observe it. I wish I could capture it but fear I would break a wing. So instead, I’ll follow and watch it drift. The highest blessing is to have it land on your nose. I gave you a rose and you landed on my nose. You took my heart with you as you flew away. I will forever be your wind, or your surface, if you should land again. Keep flying, butterfly. If you fall, I will catch you and mend your wings. Forever close.”

These were only meant for her. But love—when it refuses to be silenced—finds other ways to speak.

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Vignette: The Art of You

(romantic letter about beauty, admiration, and first attraction)

I found you beautiful the moment I laid eyes on you. I don’t think there’s a stare you can give that would make me uncomfortable. I welcome it. 

The next time I saw you I had to say something. I told you that you looked pretty and you thanked me. You said people don’t normally say that which I found hard to believe.

As we exchanged smiles I mentioned you had a nice outfit, then walked away, not wanting to impose myself. 

The third time we saw each other I said, “You’ve done it again. You look pretty again”. The sight of you made me nervous [name]. 

I then attempted the small talk, offering to buy coffee and you politely told me it was not necessary. I asked in a different way and you politely declined again. My sneaky stubborn ways, and your ever graceful ways.

I was chatting with a friend that day. You were in the corner of my eye and all I could think of was you. I wanted to stare at you like you were some kind of Mona Lisa. 

If you were art, and you are, I wanted to observe all the fine angles and curves of your image and admire its creator. But it would be rude to stare. Instead I stared blankly at my friend while thinking of you.

And like an art thief, I wanted to steal this beautiful painting. That way I could admire you everyday. 

If being a criminal is what it takes to get close to beauty, then I’ll be the most notorious criminal the world has ever seen.

On the fourth day you were with a woman. I saw you through the window hoping to make eye contact. I tried to be subtle but my eyes probably shone bright like a launch-off space shuttle. 

You didn’t look at me. Only once you did, and you smiled, and it made me happy. 

I then left and wished you a good day. Right? I counted the days [name].

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The Awe of Beauty

(Quebec City, late autumn. A café near the old stone streets. The scent of roasted espresso drifts through the air, mixing with the crisp bite of the cold. Inside, warmth hums—a contrast between the golden glow of the café and the blue evening creeping in through tall windows.)

I was supposed to be writing, but I couldn’t focus.

The pages before me were filled with thoughts I barely recognized—half-formed ideas, hesitant sentences, like unfinished sketches of something greater. I sat in a corner, wrapped in the color of warm earth, a brown jacket that fit the city, the season, the way I wanted to feel that day. Brown is a grounded color—steady, dependable. But it is also the color of old leather-bound books, of fallen leaves that had once burned red, of coffee beans before they are crushed into something fragrant. I wondered if I looked like I belonged here.

And then she walked in.

She was the kind of beautiful that made you forget what you were doing. A presence that didn’t announce itself but shifted the air just enough for those who were aware to notice. Not a woman, but a portrait—a study of light and shadow, angles and softness, something divine but tangible. At first, her hair was tied, a deliberate kind of beauty, contained and controlled. She sat with quiet purpose, her laptop open, her fingers moving with casual elegance over the keyboard.

I looked back at my own pages, empty now in a way they weren’t before. As if my own words paled against whatever unspoken poetry was unfolding before me.

Then, the moment that changed everything—
She let her hair down.

A simple act, and yet it rearranged the world.

It fell in waves, cascading past her shoulders as she adjusted, unaware—or fully aware—of the effect. I should have looked away, but the gravity of beauty pulls at you when you least expect it.

And then—she saw me.

A moment of knowing.
A slight tilt of her head, gaze still anchored to her work.
Then, her eyes lifted. Big, dark, deep. An artist’s eyes. A poet’s eyes.
A frown, a flicker of surprise. A soft curve of a smile—no teeth, just the quiet acknowledgment of a look returned.

She saw me looking.
And instead of breaking the moment, she held it.

For a second, maybe two, maybe an eternity, we existed only in that exchange—two people who had never spoken, but had already met.

(The world exhaled. The moment passed. The café filled again with the ordinary hum of life. But something had shifted, and I would never again write the same.)

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Eternal Beauty

When the gods spoke of beauty, 
they couldn’t have anticipated 
the creation of their desires 
would be so pretty.

They would’ve ceased to create – 
for beauty has a way to make hearts mourn 
and tears form, 
at the first sight of your face.

You give, in the world that takes.
Heal, in the world that breaks.
Live, when the world will cease to create.
Because true beauty is an eternity’s fate.

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Divine Perception

Her model face projects like a romantic film.
Her cheeks, rouge like the rush of blood from a blush, sparkle like ruby gems.
Her creamy skin, smooth as a jazz tune in June when it’s hot and people dream, can turn a dark night bright.

Her amber eyes, crackle like flashing fireflies,
capable of unleashing a storm if a swarm of sins should fly by.
Her lips, man’s first sin, collide like two hot daring blimps reaching for the sky.
One kiss, and what is right becomes amiss, and what is wrong would now belong.

And her nose, crafted as intended by Mother Nature to detect scents,
can also discover truths with only the slightest clue.
She holds wisdom deep in her bones, a thing women possess over men that roam.

Behold her form and all glory unfolds.
A cosmic display of accuracies which even the gods could not have perceived.
She’s the image of purity conceived in dreams.
A light, which can reveal the lonely voids.
A sight, to heal the darkest souls.
She breathes life on all lands and even seas.
If a man only had a few words to plead they just might be – Marry me..

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Elegance in Passing

(poem about elegance, attraction, and fleeting first encounters)

As I walk on a bright but crisp summer day,
I wonder what kind of beauty I might encounter.
Out in the distance, I see a tree with flowering leaves
and a person walking my way.

It’s a woman. Based on her attire,
I imagine she must be a beauty technician—
or maybe a magician.
She smiles as our paths cross,
and for a moment, I get lost.

What strikes me about her features is her neck.
It’s an elegant neck, the kind that reminds me
of an aristocratic woman in a Victorian-era dress.
How can a neck possess such magnetic qualities?
I hardly see her face.

Maybe it’s the graceful way she walks,
similar to a glide, like a performer in an icecapade.
Her head stands tall,
and like autumn leaves that gracefully fall,
her majestic qualities can change seasons
in people who see her.

With every step,
her hips sway like waves in a storm,
steering souls like ships in the wind.
For how long can a vessel hold its form
before surrendering to the tide?
I am a shipwreck, lost in her sway.

I wonder if her voice matches her fluid ways,
a melody drifting where elegance sways.
The two would enchant and entrance,
for a soul caught in her glance
has no chance to advance.

I imagine her voice to possess hypnotic frequencies,
like heavy seas known for bringing men to their knees.
If her grace meets her voice in harmony,
the melodies she creates are sure to soothe and relieve
while vibrating out into space.

Regardless of unity,
she’s a tapestry woven from cosmic rays.
Her essence, perceived across spaces and times,
far from where her magic originally took place.
She’s a sweet, persistent elegance I desire.
I’m now a secret admirer.

As she walks away, I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
Is she merely a blessing to remind me
that the world should be admired, and not always desired?
Whatever the occurrence means to me
may change as the seasons do.

But what is certainly true
is the fire I have to hide and say goodbye to,
as I’m lost at sea, lost in a dream.

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The Silent Conversation

(Quebec City. Late afternoon. The café is warm, a world contained within itself. Outside, the air is sharp, the sky beginning its descent into blue-grey dusk. Inside, time is slower, stretched between glances and sips of coffee, between the unspoken and the almost-said.)

The first time, I only looked. The second time, I told her she looked pretty.

I expected her to hear it the way people hear anything they’re used to—the way you hear the weather is nice today or your coffee is ready. But she looked at me as if she hadn’t heard it in a long time, or perhaps, as if she had never really believed it when it was said before.

That look—somewhere between surprised and pleased—stayed with me long after I left.

I told her I liked her outfit. A simple remark, easy to say, easier to walk away from. And I did. I left before I could impose, before I could let myself linger too long in the moment.

But that moment did not leave me.

Later, I found myself wondering if she had thought about it, too. Not in the way of grand romantic notions, but in the quiet way people recall small, unexpected things—a compliment from a stranger, a look that lasted longer than it should have.

And so, the next day, or maybe the day after, I found myself back at the café looking for inspiration. 

Would she be there?

Would she look at me the same way again?

Or had the spell already faded?

(I took a seat. I waited, though I wouldn’t have called it that. And in that waiting, the unspoken conversation continued.)

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Unspoken Connections

I know it in my bones like I know the weather,
a feeling inside like I’ve already met her.
She has a look
that’s swift like a fisherman’s hook
it captures my heart like a thrill in a book.

A neutral gaze with an emotionless face.
Her face remains calm while looking my way.
Her eyes remain locked while piercing into mine.
A silent moment as time drifts to a halt.

I recognized that look—
it was the same one I had worn myself.
The look of attraction.

All possess “this” face when they see someone they like.
Though it can quickly vanish,
the moment is quiet while the eyes keenly observe.
Noises will come once silence is heard.

New thoughts will enter with wishes to engage
or hold back, and wait with the weight.
But when the passion is strong
and the moment is right,
thought doesn’t enter.
The body and soul simply engage.

Words will be spoken,
and new thoughts will spill out,
even if they’re words
we’ve already made.
It will be new because it’s spontaneous.
No words held down or afraid.
All is free to create, without fear or burden of hurt.

As I look at her, I have allowed my mind to think.
I want to say something, but I can’t speak.
Fear has won today.

I watch her drift and will never know her name.

A shame and a lesson I’ve learned many days.
Maybe it’s just the way it’s supposed to be.

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In the Quiet Between

(And sometimes, in the quiet between glances, I let my mind wander.

I imagine her smile widening, her eyes brightening with the kind of recognition that makes everything else fade.

She would say my name, softly, like a secret meant only for me. I would exhale when she exhales as the words sink deep, and breathe when she breathes, giving life to ideas. 

She would talk about recipes, feeding me treats, and reveal inner thoughts I had wished she’d speak. 

In those moments, reality softens, and I almost believe it could happen. Somewhere between memories and wishes lies premonitions, as if time were circular, with new moments yet the same rhythm.

But the door opens, and a cold draft tightens my face, waking me from the daydream, and like the wind, my mind drifts from somewhere distant and settles in the present. And I am left imagining her from across the room—still captured, still hoping, still silent.)  

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Gaze of Longing

If she whistled he would sing, 
make her giggle, be her thing.

She’s the shape of sculptured waves, 
and the form men wish to date.

But not me. I want more than just to play.
I want to merge with her essence in every single way.

From the tip to the inner core where love potions are formed, I want to be with her.

A silly romantic with silly words come pouring out of my mouth.

It’s just the right noise level with hopes to make her tremble. 

Have I seen you before? I think I have. 
We once met in a sweaty summer dream, 
a time when we were lonely, uncozy in a home.

I know you remember the feeling.
It was the kind of dream that makes the soul want to kneel to feel things.

I could be the one for you.
Only way to discover is a rendezvous near the eve of the moon, 
one where we can conceive of dreams we one day wish to have.

As we observe each other’s eyes, beautiful mysteries spring forth to mind.

I wonder what she thinks, what’s on her mind.
She has a pretty face that displays a playful gaze.
It’s a feast I’d love to taste.

She returns the look with words I must obey:

I’ll see you at eight…
And don’t you dare be late…

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Whispers of a Bee

I’m just a honeybee
seeking a flower to fall on
to capture nectar.
Any color or shape will do.
It’s the scent I hunt.
The substance I need
to be useful, and truthful.

To pursue is the nature of my being,
and yours is allowing me to enter.
I could gently land on you.
Would you allow me a taste?
Something small, without a waste?
Something I can take with me
while I make my way?

If you were a flower
I could dance with you.
Make sounds and vibrations
while I play with you.
Extract what you give
when you come to bloom.
Come back the next day
when the sun is noon.

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“Attraction isn’t an accident. It’s a need—one that lets us believe in things not yet seen. It gives us hope. It inspires. It offers love the space to flow and the chance to grow.”

The Magnetic Tension

(Quebec City. The café again. The same time, the same place. But something is different now. It is no longer about returning—it is about something pulling me back, something larger than choice.)

Attraction has a rhythm. It moves in waves, pulsing through stolen glances, through the way space shrinks without ever closing the distance.

The first time, I only looked.
The second time, I spoke.
But now, I found myself waiting for the moment before it even arrived.

She was there again, and when she looked up, it was not a glance of surprise, but of recognition. That was new. That was something else.

I wondered if she had begun to expect me, the same way I had begun to expect her.

There is a moment in attraction—before words, before touch—where the air between two people becomes charged. A slow-burning fuse, waiting.

Her gaze lingered a second too long. Or maybe I was the one holding on.

I wanted to say something again. Something easy, something casual, just to test the weight of the air between us.

But she beat me to it.

A small, knowing smile. The kind that dared me to react.

She was waiting.

I felt it then—the shift, the magnetic pull, the certainty that something had begun, even if neither of us knew what.

(The moment held. And then, like all moments, it passed. But the weight of it remained.)

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Petals of Fate

She loves me. She loves me not?..
The bet that feels like Russian roulette.
The anxiety of a one-way love.
The desire to hold the last petal and proclaim mutual love.

White as a dove, I rub the last petal in my hand.
I want to keep it safe, forever close, within our space.
Like a genie bottle I wish, for your name on all three.

One knee on the grass, looking up at your face.
Two people in glee, both hearts within reach.
Day three of picking flowers, for each day I dream of thee..

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Typography in the Sunshine

(poem about sunshine, beauty, and the radiance of love)

I could spend days watching you play among the stars,
and admire your face gracing rays from afar.
Seeing you always brings a smile to my face,
makes me want to write your name in endless ways
while I sit in the shade.

If only the sun were as warm as you,
I’d melt into light, and be warmed by you.
Every typography I can think of holds a piece of you.
And like a letter—I’d write a book or two.

The cursive you sways like the movements you do,
putting eyes in a trance at the sight of you.
And the decorative you sparkles like a superstar.
How marvelous you truly are.

Sunshine and magnetic rays bless my soul today,

as I’m the one who writes your name this way.

And whether close or afar,
the letters I write, could never define,
how truly beautiful you are…

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Caught in a Maze

I wonder what you eat,
to make you pretty, cute, and sweet?
It’s like a treat when we meet,
and our eyes lock and greet.

It’s like a fruit and a tooth
that’s destined for a feast.
You make my heart beat fast,
like a sprinter in a dash,
similar to the feeling
when a crook is stealing cash.

I can’t escape,
and I don’t want to look away.
Wishes of us,
from every Monday to Sunday.
It’s a magic we should have,
and a memory that would last.

My desires are true, and I can’t relent.
How could I,
with your translucent blue eyes
that haze and amaze?

I get lost in your eyes,
like a mouse in a maze.
It’s a desperate attempt,
as my heart drums to detect your scent.
You have a gaze that cuts deep,
like incisions—
a bleeding decision,
a laser beam wave
of heat and precision.

Being close to you
makes my whole body weak.

And when you smile,
my mind goes wild,
evoking images of a kiss,
on a beach with two hips on a trip,
and a room where lovers
twist and grip,
as bedsheets rip.

A moment where laughs will last,
as passion splashes,
an eternity of desire.
A bedside fire,
where we never tire.

A friction of benediction,
as your face
is the only I admire.
My passion for you
is one to never expire,
and a fantasy dream
I one day wish to become true.

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Moments of Lust and Hopes of More 

(poem about lust, passion, and longing for more)

There are moments when her beauty holds me still—
when her face captures my eyes,
as my gaze lingers, tracing the curve of her thighs.
Does she think that’s all I notice?
It was her face that made me stay.
But her waist—
that’s the space where my hands ache to be placed.
A lustful desire.

And from her hips, down to the dip where soft rivers slip,
is the space I yearn for music to be made—
a beautiful maze.

Can she tell from my eyes what I wish to believe?
Would she judge my passion as just a moment of lust?
Or does she wish, like I, to be more to us?

If only I knew her name,
I could imagine it next to mine,
carved into a tree—
deep in a forest, where our bodies could merge
in the heat of a dream, playing under a sun,
resting under a shade.

And as the weather changed,
we could dance in the rain,
drenched in passion, lost in fires of attraction.

I want to know her name… but not today.
I’ll simply smile and say hi,
and let her energy decide.
Whatever she desires—her eyes won’t lie.
I patiently wait.

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The Subtle Fire

(Quebec City. The café again—but this time, she is not here. And yet, she is everywhere. Her absence does not erase her presence. It only makes it louder.)

I don’t need to see her to feel the weight of her presence.

That is how I know the fire has started.

It is in the way I catch myself looking toward the door, in the way I choose my seat as if it matters. In the way I wonder, just for a second, whether she noticed that I wasn’t there yesterday, whether she looks for me the way I look for her.

I have no claim to her, no reason to expect her to be anywhere at all. And yet—

All I could think of was her voice—soft and steady, vibrating with the calm resonance of an ohm, yet layered with the warmth of divine femininity. Her words were smooth and soothing, like octaves of a trained singer who knows how to make silence sing. 

Is it absurd to be drawn to someone whom you’ve only encountered a handful of times yet memorized the shape of their eyes and smile?

There are moments when the air around me feels full, as if she has only just left, as if some part of her lingers even when she is nowhere to be seen.

A fire doesn’t always burn in the open. Sometimes, it stays beneath the surface, waiting.

(And so I wait, too.)

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A Kiss Between Dreams

If I could kiss you to awaken you, I would,
followed by another kiss to put you to sleep.

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A Melody True

Alone I yearned for you.
I crackled at night hoping you could feel my fire.
I fantasized about realizing my deepest desire.
Though I never met you, it was always you I admired.
I echoed from the heart,
my vulnerability seeking to be seen and heard
so our two souls could merge.

If love is a tune, then its vibrations must also possess
some kind of glue, since sounds sometimes stick and linger around.
That’s how I felt when you came around.
You’re a substance I’m defenseless to.
A mood which hollows blues.
A cue, for always good news.
Forever close to you is what I wish to do.

Would you “ding” while I “dong” like the bells of Sunday songs?
I would chime your inner rhymes so your heart never longs.
My promise to you is a song that never drowns.
A melody true, so our tune carries on.

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Noon Naps and Summer Croons

It’s bright. It’s summer. And here I lay,
naked chest and legs splayed as if antagonizing the rays.
I lose my grace when I’m all alone.

No need to pretend or worry.
No need to think or hurry.
Only lie and delight..

The wind and the grass has its own tune if you ever listen.
It’s a whisper, and sometimes sharp and crisper,
like when the air cools to sing its own blues.

Soothing to the ear, I could just fade away..
The sun and cool breeze in my face.
The blades of the grass to support my back.
Wishing you near on this afternoon nap.

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Wings to Fly, Eyes to See

You may spend years looking to match your eyes,
but miss the ones you were blind to.
Attraction can be a fickle thing—
One moment you admire, the next, it’s gone.
Gone as if it never existed—why?
Other times, the attraction never fades.
We all seek to never fade..

Can love exist for an eternity?
Can two hearts mend, become one,
live long and let songs go on forever?
I like to believe so.
Maybe I’m just a dove,
seeking my forever one.

I wish I had wings
to feel the glide of the wind beneath my wings—
the empty feeling, smooth to the touch,
like the love I feel when we’re close.

Light as a feather with its gentle brush,
I could quiet the noise and fly by your side.
Do you feel me now, just a touch?
My eyes, like wings, belong to you, my Dove.

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The Silent Flame

(poem about silent attraction, mystery, and the hidden flame of love)

What is hot is in a cup.
The warmth in her hand is my deep escape.
Steam flows upward, drifting toward her face—
a see-through flame.
An image I chase.

Light brightens, enhancing her grace.
Words, visually spoken but unheard,
a silent observer in a world of noise.
Will music fade once it’s made?

There’s ambiguity in her face.
I wonder her age, her name,
the flames that make her tame.
Curiosity stirs with scents of interest—
burning incense and closing distance.
A fire with no flame,
no names, no blame—only soothing pain.

There’s no rhyme or reason
when attraction plays.
A game of hide and seek
where hearts can meet.
A dream where inhibitions cease to speak,
a romantic dance where life conceives.

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