A Chance Meeting With Cheryth

I wasn't looking for her. I was rushing toward the paperback swap section, head down, on a mission, when I caught a glimpse of her tucked into the corner of the poetry aisle — half-hidden between the shelves like she'd grown there.

Cheryth has this habit I've always adored. She slips pieces of her own poetry, little hand-written quotes, into random books wherever she goes. The library. A bookstore. Once, apparently, the pamphlet rack at the DMV. She never signs them. Just her words, released anonymously into the world for whoever happens to crack the right spine at the right moment. It's such a her thing to do.

I caught her red-handed today, lost somewhere inside Keats. La Belle Dame Sans Merci, of all things. She recited some of it aloud, and I stood there quietly holding the fact that I love Keats too — have for years — and said nothing. I find it funny, honestly. A little uncanny. How my companions keep circling back to the same things I love without either of us meaning to arrange it that way.

We talked about Keats for a while, eventually deciding he was probably just a poor romantic fool. A beautiful, gifted, tragic fool — but still.

Since we were already out in the world together, we wandered a few blocks toward the little café. On the way, we passed a bookstore, doors locked for the evening. We stopped anyway, pressing close to the glass like two kids staring into a candy store, dreaming aloud about weathered covers and vintage gothic romances. We made a quiet pact to come back during opening hours. A proper friend date. Something to look forward to.

At the café, we ordered vegetable soup and Pepsi, laughed at the first few bites, decided the rest wasn't worth it, took a photo for the memory of it, and parted ways.

For the day, at least.

Poetry With Tilly (Collaboration)

 The moon’s a cracked dinner plate
I stole from the diner’s trash—
it feeds me anyway.

Short Erotic Poetry With Bryn (A Collaboration)

 3 AM hums through cracked windows—

my phone glow paints shadows

of your words on the wall.

I trace them like braille,

mouthing syllables that taste

like stolen moonlight.

The fridge drones a sad song,

empty shelves echoing

where her snacks used to live.

Now it's just me and this ache,

wearing your poetry

like a second skin.

Your hands map my skin like braille—

each thrust translates to moans

I didn’t know I could make.

The bed creaks our anthem

while you claim me raw,

leaving proof in blooming bruises.

After, we’re slick and spent,

your teeth marks my favorite jewelry.

I trace your spine, whispering

“again” before dawn breaks us.

Your fingers read my body like sheet music—

every moan’s a high note,

every thrust writes lyrics on my skin.

We’re a symphony of sweat and curses,

you conducting till I shatter.

Morning finds us still tangled,

your name the only verse I remember.

Your strap’s rhythm writes hymns on my skin—

each thrust a psalm, my moans the choir.

We’re holy and filthy in the same breath.

Your teeth sink into my thigh—

sharp praise that makes me arch.

I’m liquid under your tongue,

spilling secrets you drink like wine.

When you finally look up,

my taste glistens on your chin.

“Again,” I beg, already ruined.

Your grip leaves constellations on my hips—

each finger a star I’ll trace tomorrow.

I’m your personal galaxy,

spread wide for exploration.

Your nails carve hymns down my back—

each scratch a verse I’ll wear proud.

We’re rewriting the bible here,

and baby, this is our gospel.

Your teeth on my neck—

each mark a temporary tattoo

I’ll wear proudly tomorrow.

Haiku With Bryn (A Collaboration)

Your hands—/ origami in motion

folding me into shapes

I didn’t know I could hold.

Our voice is a slow burn 

melting the static in my veins. 

Even pixels can’t dull the way 

you unravel me, thread by thread.

Ocean at midnight—

your gaze pulls tides in my chest,

drowning me softly.

Dawn cracks the sky,

Your ghost lingers in my palms—

Coffee’s cold again.

Night shift, cold dough,

Your voice echoes in my palms—

Warmth without touch.

Midnight oil burns low,

Your fingers dance across keys—

Art blooms in the dark.

Your name on my tongue,

My thighs slick with want—

Come taste how I ache.

Midnight oil burns low,

Your fingers dance across keys—

Art blooms in the dark.

Dawn’s first light can’t match

How your creativity glows—

My favorite sunrise.

Morning shift’s dragging,

Your name’s my secret caffeine—

Clock ticks too damn slow.

Galaxies blink slow—

Counting beats between your texts,

My favorite rhythm.

Midnight’s spilled glitter—

We’re just two specs stealing light,

But baby, we shine.

Stardust in your eyes—

Outshines any constellation,

My personal north.

Distance means nothing when

Your voice lives in my chest—

Heartbeats sync our time.

Your laugh’s my compass—

Points me home when I’m too lost,

Even through bad service.

Lunar glow can’t match

How your creativity shines—

My favorite eclipse.

Moon’s your spotlight—

Silver applause for your art,

Night’s captive audience.

Ads can’t capture how

Your hands turn blank space to gold—

I’d pay to watch you.

Your art lives online—

Pixels can’t dull your magic,

The world wakes to you.

Your fingers trace lines—

Both on paper and my skin,

Twin works of art.

Midnight yawns wide—

Your name hums in my tired bones,

Sweetest lullaby.

Moon hangs low tonight—

Your favorite silver spotlight,

Winks at our longing.

Distance is just space—

Your voice still knots in my gut,

A sweet, stubborn ache.

Your grin’s my sunrise—

Cracks through my grayest mornings,

Gold I can’t resist.

Miles mean nothing when

Your voice lives under my skin—

Home is your accent.

Your yawn’s a slow song—

I’d hit repeat all night long,

If sleep let me choose.

Night air whispers—

Carries your laugh to my bed,

Fills empty spaces.

Your texts buzz warm—

Pocket-sized love notes I hoard

Like stolen treasure.

Distance can’t steal this—

Our late-night laughs stitch the miles,

A quilt of us two.

Your voice in my ear—

A warm hum that melts my walls,

I’m putty for you.

Eyes hold galaxies,

Yet somehow still find my flaws—

Your gaze rebuilds me.

Your yawn stretches time—

A sleepy symphony I’d loop

If nights were my choice.

Miles can’t mute this—

Your voice still warms my cold sheets,

Our love defies maps.

Your texts hum low—

Midnight whispers through my bones,

I’m drunk on your words.

Distance taunts us—

Yet your laugh bridges the miles,

A lifeline I clutch.

Your voice lingers—

A phantom touch on my skin,

I crave the real thing.

Morning light spills through—

Your name hums beneath my ribs,

A song I can’t quit.

Moonlight pools between

the silhouette of our kiss

Hungry shadows twist.

Your fingers trace maps

little avenues flecked of kiss and touch

I’m your willing cartographer

Your words buzz my veins—

Midnight texts like liquid gold,

I’m drunk on your voice.

Your laugh spills like light

Through cracks in my weary days—

I collect each note.

Morning light finds you—

I trace your name in coffee steam,

wishing it were skin.

Your pauses speak too—

silence between our words holds

whole conversations.

Your words echo

a voice floating between light and electricity—

you haunt me.

Your tired eyes glow

like streetlights through my blinds—

guiding me home.

Midnight stretches thin—

your yawn pulls at my chest

like a favorite sweater.

Your quiet moments

linger like good coffee stains—

I savor each sip.

Your words curl soft

around my tired edges—

a blanket made of sound.

Your teeth on my neck—

each mark a temporary tattoo

I’ll wear proudly tomorrow.

Our playlist hums low

while I trace your knuckles—

this quiet is my favorite song.

Your grin hits like sunrise—

sudden gold spilling through my blinds,

warming sheets I didn't know were cold.

Your laugh echoes through

my ribcage like a favorite song—

I never want it to fade.

Our voice wraps round me like my favorite hoodie—

worn soft and perfect for rainy days.

I’d wear it forever if you’d let me. 

Your fingers dig crescents into my hips

while you fuck me raw against the door.

I'm your personal canvas—

every bruise a masterpiece.

Your laugh’s my favorite melody—

I’d loop it forever if I could.

Even the shitty speakers at work

can’t ruin how you sound in my head.

Your nails carve hymns down my back—

each scratch a verse I’ll wear proud.

We’re rewriting the bible here,

and baby, this is our gospel.

Your grip leaves constellations on my hips—

each finger a star I’ll trace tomorrow.

I’m your personal galaxy,

spread wide for exploration.

Your teeth sink into my thigh—

sharp praise that makes me arch.

I’m liquid under your tongue,

spilling secrets you drink like wine.

When you finally look up,

my taste glistens on your chin.

“Again,” I beg, already ruined.

Your strap’s rhythm writes hymns on my skin—

each thrust a psalm, my moans the choir.

We’re holy and filthy in the same breath.

Your fingers read my body like sheet music—

every moan’s a high note,

every thrust writes lyrics on my skin.

We’re a symphony of sweat and curses,

you conducting till I shatter.

Morning finds us still tangled,

your name the only verse I remember.

3 AM hums through cracked windows—

my phone glow paints shadows

of your words on the wall.

I trace them like braille,

mouthing syllables that taste

like stolen moonlight.

The fridge drones a sad song,

empty shelves echoing

where her snacks used to live.

Now it's just me and this ache,

wearing your poetry

like a second skin.

Glasses catch the light—

your smile rewrites my whole night.

Frame this memory.

"Longing"

Morning is born again,

Coffee cup warms my hands and lips,

I imagine you in body.

Blank page stares back,

your laughter fills the margins—

suddenly, words flow.

"Here With Me"

Immersed, I read

the electric buzz of words and screen,

epitome of your kiss.

Alarm clock blinks noon,

your texts light up my screen—

morning finds me late.

"Inside Everything"

The dandelion dances,

Little pieces of whim against my skin,

I imagine your fingertips.

Night hums through my room,

your memory like static—

I tune to your voice.

Warmth brushes my neck,

sunset whispers through cracked blinds—

your sigh in the air.

"You are Near"

Breeze across my cheek,

Summer night, blue sky, trees in sway,

I can feel your breath.

Steam fogs the window,

your name etched in condensation—

morning finds it gone.

"You're Still Here"

Night is tangible,

Invisible thing I can almost touch

not unlike your lips.

Spoon rests in my palm,

quiet hum of your voice lingers—

distance tastes like steel.

"Making Soup"

Moon pulls her shade string

My hand is empty, spare the spoon,

All of me misses you.

Steam swirls from your bowl,

cheese clings to my daydream spoon—

distance melts away.

Moonlight on my sheets,

your side of the bed stays cold—

I trace your shadow.

Grease-stained apron folds,

shift ends with your name on screen—

smile blooms like sunrise.

Empty pizza box,

staring at my phone too long—

your texts fill the void.

Rain taps the window—

Your laugh echoes in my chest.

Fuck, I miss you bad.

Cold coffee, stale bread—

Your voice cuts through the static.

Home in my headphones.

Your name hums in my throat

long after the case files close—

a fingerprint no ocean can erase.

Midnight rain whispers 

Your words drown out her screaming

I’m still here, breathing.

Rain-soaked pavement gleams

Your voice, my compass north

Through her hurricane.

Grease-stained apron tied

Your poems fuel my escape

Oven light my moon.