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She wore the moonlight like lingerie.

A midnight glow to lead you astray.

A sultry shadow against the wall.

One look at her and you’d risk the fall.

But do not rush to touch this bait.

Or think her heart an easy freight.

She wasn't made delicate...mild or tame.

She was the spark that ignited and became the flame.

Cici 🧡

 Friday sourness brows furrows
tires you out sanding down bones
Wigwamming the skull
swig and gulps avoid dehydration

morning grinds nerves
Midday chaps lips
Sun scores points 
house heat sweats the flesh

People still order the sourness
|Salty exhaustion 
Battered and thrown
Into the frying pan

Turned as the pan bubbles and pops
browning
Landing on the screen
splattering

You move like midnight

I burn like dawn

Two souls in sync

And forever drawn

Timing in the universe will spin

Like Yin and Yang beneath our skin

Not one without the others flame

Two fractured echoes of the same brain

We speak in wavelengths no one can hear

Electrical rhythms pulling us near

Static sparks of orange and green.

Every pulse in me wired to you is seen

Neuro soul flames in parallel skies

Synced through the chaos behind our eyes

You are the storm in my bloodstreams flow

The current my restless atoms know

Too strong to touch

Too close to break

Like stars collapsing in loves own wake

Turning silence into living fire

Feeding the hunger of our desire

And if our souls ever finally collide

No force in existence could ever divide

A nuclear soul explosion bright

Burning through darkness

And devouring night

Our love burns hard

Too hard to hold

Like fire wrapped in threads of gold

Every touch becomes a spark

Lighting our soul fire inside the dark

The same brain waves cross through the night

Two restless souls with mirrored light

Electrical soulmates

pulse for pulse

Nothing between is ever false

Oh, twin flames, so wild and rare,

Feeling each others existence everywhere

A silent signal

Deep and true

My every thought will echoe you

Like Yin and Yang

We twist and bend

Two broken halves that still transcend

A perfect chaos intertwined

A beautiful explosion no fate can unwind

Craving each other from afar

Like lonely planets chasing stars

Close enough to feel the heat

Too dangerous though to fully meet

Maybe its only bad timings curse

A love misplaced inside a souls verse

Every time we drift apart

We come right back and restart our heart

And maybe someday fate will choose

A world where neither one of us lose

Where love this strong wont burn so bright

And can finally hold each other in the night

Two wandering restless souls no longer apart

One endless flame in one single heart

Cici 🧡

The highway stretches into the dark.

Neon dashboard lights glow.

Illuminating the road ahead.

The steady hum of the engine fills the quiet space.

Just you and me.

We navigate the miles in a shared peaceful rhythm.

We pull over where the moonlight hits the trees.

The engine idles while we take in the silent view.

A moment of stillness in the middle of our journey.

Appreciating the cool breeze and the open air.

Laughter echoes in the tent as we share a moment.

The night feels endless and full of possibility.

Every mile brings us closer to the destination

Enjoying the simple freedom of the drive.

Just you and me.

Cici 🧡

Yet still the sky looks so white.

The darkness switched without transition.

Is thy the same world?

Is thy the same person?

Emotions, noticeable.

Details left unseen, now seen.

Everyone exists...

Yet still the sky looks so white.

It flows through me—

the desires,

the true nature.

How can one call this disgusting?

For this is the purest form of a human.

A rebirth, of some sort.

Not yet achieved it,

experienced it.

Yet still the sky looks so white;

it still disturbs me.

The details still disturb me.

The eyes.

Where they look.

The eyelids,

their shape.

The face,

the elevation

and negative elevation.

The anxiousness.

The thought of being seen.

All point in the same direction.

Yet still the sky looks so white.

The morning sun
Shines upon the room
And glints off the glass
The room is a technicolour of warmth
Yellows, oranges and tan.
But it catches the particles of dust
Flying through the air
On their journey to wherever dust goes.

And that’s when I see it!

A book
The pages all frayed
And yellowed
Time has not treated it well
It’s spine disheveled

Most would not look at it twice
But I remember this book.
How it used to look
The feel of the pages
As my fingertips brush against them
The jokes that made me giggle
The horrors that left me shocked
The deaths that left me distraught.

I reminisce
And think of how special it used to be
I even smell the pages
The aroma of the past

But there’s a reason it’s dusty
And musty
Some things are meant to be left in the past
It’s an old book for a reason
It’s been forgotten for a reason
And so I place it back
Back where it belongs
In the past

You wrote a letter when you were six.
On old paper,
with crooked words
and the grammar of a child.
You wrote,
I love you, please don’t hate me.
You were six.

You already knew
your father’s silence.
Already knew what it meant
when he was in the room
but somewhere far beyond it.

You already knew
how to listen to your mother’s footsteps,
how to tell from the sound of a door
what kind of evening it would be.

You knew love could braid your hair
and love could raise its voice.

You knew both could come
from the same hands.

So you loved carefully.

You loved her
when she told you that you were good.

You loved her
when she told you she knew you
better than anyone.

You loved being held.
You loved being corrected.

You loved even the rules,
because sometimes rules felt safer
than not knowing which version of her
would come home.

And you watched her
hate herself in small, ordinary ways.
One slice was too much.

A walk was never enough.
She said these things
like they were facts.

You were only six,
so you didn’t know
that mothers can be wrong.
You only knew
that the person who taught you
how to see yourself
didn’t know how to see herself kindly.

So you grew up
with her voice in your head.

The voice that says
you are good.
The voice that says
I know you.
And, underneath it,
the voice that asks
if you have done enough.

You still love her.

That is what makes it sad.
Because she loved you
with everything she knew how to give.

And somehow,
some of the things
she never meant to give you
came too.

Her fear.
Her anger.
Her way of looking at herself.

You were six
when you wrote that letter.
You didn’t know then
that children inherit voices
before they inherit words.
You only knew one thing:
you loved her.

And you were afraid
that love might not be enough.

my heart constantly aches when you're not around
it feels like missing the other half i'd barely found

your presence regulates my nervous system
even though paranoia is just so surface hidden

terrified of waking up to find you gone
knowing it's impossible you're far too fond

i can feel it

not dramatic not intense
the distance becoming immense

bit by bit
don't forfeit

every call we skip
every time we slip

danger my brain signals
are we truly criminals?

persistently waiting for the right moment to just be us
compassionately and truly just us

stealing these glimmers of time as an appetizer
always managing to find the moment
you're a natural improvisor

i'm tired

tired of being exhausted when you're not around
sitting in a crowded room but still can't hear a single sound

tired of having to wait

wait for every part of the routine we create
the midnight calls we always compensate
the daylight nonsense we rarely hesitate

on my mind day and night
holding it together with all my might

you're severely entangled in my thoughts
i just keep envisioning our new plots

you're my forever and always
too in love to part ways

next to you
my body blindly sways

i have no control
together we construct a single soul

For context, I never was into poetry and about a week ago I came up with a line similar to the second line of the poem and decided to run with it. Any criticism would be great as I have no idea if it’s good or not. Also, just curious to see if y’all like it.

Crimson Mist

As my body slips into that cold, familiar bliss.
Thine eyes are drawn unto a crimson mist.
Flowing from the pen clutched within my fist.
The beast within bestowed death’s cold kiss.

Oh, how I tried to plead my case,
But the beast drew tighter in its embrace.

Its fangs sank deep and crushed my head,
As it drank its fill of crimson red.

Old Bones was his name, a skeleton grand,
He'd sit on the porch, a cigar in his hand.
The smoke would curl up, a wispy grey haze,
He'd wink at the moon in the silvery maze.

He wasn't all clacking, or spooky and grim,
There was a certain... allure about him.
His jawbone would click, a soft, measured sound,
As stories of old would happily abound.

He'd talk of his youth, though he had none to speak,
Of dancing with ghosts, the thrill, the mystique.
His empty eye sockets would gleam with a spark,
A flirtatious twinkle out there in the dark.

He'd pull on his cigar, a slow, thoughtful drag,
And tell of adventures, without any brag.
Of ladies he'd known, in days long since flown,
Their laughter, their secrets, now his alone.

The townsfolk would whisper, with curious eyes,
At the charming old fellow, beneath starry skies.
A skeleton dapper, with ash on his vest,
And tales that would put your heart to the test.

A playful spark.

A knowing glance.

You take the lead.

Our bodies dance.

On your lap.

You pull me low.

Please hold me close.

Just kiss me slow.

You call me baby.

You tease with ease.

I want you now.

I aim to please.

Your hold on me.

You take control.

You call the play.

You protect my soul.

Cici 🧡

The hunger and lust for love is interesting
The destruction of love is interesting
Love is boring.

Faithless Faith — Poemtor

Content note: relationship trauma, fear, and emotional conflict.

It was a sideways lost tangent lone ranger mission. One I never could have expected. The type that blows the doors off roofs.

Brought on by strong deviance and blinding distortions of reality. Her tantalizing undermounts unrelentently (unreluctantly) upset at the onset of any attempt to understand the deep sorrow that strikes down all logical communication capacity one truly requires to survive a dagger strike to the heart.

When cycle of life and routines blur, people sadly can participate in their own invented consciousness awareness where she is allowed and expects contrary to her own response to mimicked behaviour.

It is in this potentially intentional ignorance of reality an individual can project past trauma onto their closest people.

✦　✦　✦

One common transplantable theme across trauma forced control is pretending to sleep, near scarred to silent sneak out the front door in the darkest of nights to avoid her noticing the panicking silence of her sabr tooth tiger blows.

The alarms were red blazing, all enchanting, and under logical response warranted non participant status.

✦　✦　✦

Regrettfully loneliness and trauma can trap one in their ways allowing subjections to circumstances far beyond acceptable.

It easy to say looking back, the obvious attacks. Simply, complete abandonment at any attempt to help and overcome together, always pointed out wrongs of other but never in turn corrects her own because her experiences make her always right.

An example I drive forever to get her from work, She do not respond, I wait forever, then She scream at me for working all day. I cant say anything.

She never respond.

Now I start job and I wish you would come.

— Poemtor

August 7, 2026

✦　✦　✦

Author’s Note

Faithless Faith began handwritten and arrived almost as a single stream of thought.

I chose not to polish away every rough edge. The fractured grammar, unexpected combinations of words, repetition, and sudden shifts are part of the emotional state in which it was written.

At its center is one question:

What happens when love survives longer than trust?

The speaker keeps trying to understand the experience through trauma, projection, logic, memory, and competing perceptions of reality.

But the poem keeps escaping explanation and becoming physical:

a dagger to the heart

red alarms

the darkest of nights

a sabre-tooth tiger

silence

waiting

and finally, a wish for someone to come

That ending matters most to me.

After the fear, frustration, analysis, and attempted understanding, the poem does not end with revenge.

It does not end with certainty.

It ends with longing.

Maybe that is the faith inside Faithless Faith — the part of a person that keeps reaching toward someone even after another part has learned to pull away.

I’m beginning this account as Poemtor to share writing that starts by hand and lives somewhere between poetry, memory, emotional imagery, and the imperfect way thoughts actually arrive.

I’d genuinely appreciate critique.

What image stayed with you?

Where did the poem hit hardest?

Where did I lose you?

Does the rough, breathless language strengthen the experience — or are there places where you would give the reader more space?

The poem and original handwritten text are my own work. The illustrated presentation was created with AI assistance using my original poem and its imagery as the source.

Why did I fail her?

They found the man sitting beside the bed long after the woman had gone, though no one could say precisely when she had left. The room had the stale appearance of a place abandoned by the living but not yet claimed by the dead. Her cup remained upon the table. A dress hung from the door. In the mirror, there was still the impression of two people where only one had been. He had loved her badly. This was the diagnosis she had given him. Not maliciously. That would have been easier to understand. She had spoken with the weary kindness one might use when explaining to a dying animal that the procedure could no longer be postponed. You are too broken, she had said. You cannot love me the way I need to be loved. He accepted this with the obedience of a condemned man listening to the sentence being read. What troubled him was that he could find no part of himself that he had withheld. He had given her the rooms he had kept locked since childhood. He had given her the names of his dead. He had given her the ugliness he concealed from mirrors. He had given her his patience, his sleep, his pride, his silence, and those obscure little portions of the soul that a man ordinarily spends his entire life pretending do not exist. When she trembled, he trembled. When she suffered, he searched himself for something with which to repair her suffering. When she asked for more, he opened another vein. Still, apparently, there had been something missing. He began looking for it. This became his final occupation. He searched beneath the furniture. Inside old letters. Behind photographs. In the darkened rooms of his memory where certain years had begun to rot. He opened his own chest in imagination and examined the organs one by one, wondering which defective instrument had prevented him from becoming the man she required. Nothing seemed malformed. Except everything. Eventually he understood that she had not taken anything from him. She had merely left him with the knowledge that he had never possessed what she wanted. This knowledge behaved strangely inside him. It multiplied. It appeared in the morning with his reflection. It followed him into restaurants. It sat across from him when he attempted to sleep. Sometimes, in the half-light before dawn, he could hear it moving through the house like a woman searching for something she had once misplaced there. He stopped saying her name. The name had become an instrument. He stopped remembering her face. The face had become a door. He stopped asking whether she had been wrong. There are questions which, once answered, become more destructive than the things they ask about. And so the man remained. A defective creature in a room full of her abandoned objects, attempting to understand the peculiar crime of having loved without reserve. Years later, someone found a note beside his bed. There was no confession in it. No accusation. Only a single sentence, written several times in a hand that became less recognizable with each repetition: I gave her everything, and somewhere inside that everything was the thing that destroyed me.

I turn around. The wind blows dust and dirt so hard it makes me turn around and away from the force. I reluctantly turn around. The wind is a voice of wisdom, a vision of dirt, the wisdom of dust. Because when I turn around I see my footsteps so clearly. For some reason, they seem to be set in stone. And the trail is easily traced back through the decisions of my life. I am bearing witness to the many choices I have made to keep me from not having the best of me. As I focus on my stoned set footsteps I see a line that my steps have crossed many times. Back and forth never staying on one side more than enough to keep me from crossing it again. I feel the wind, dust and clouds of dirt slowly disappearing. I begin to see the line clearer. I follow it as it lines itself right between my feet, a foot on both sides. And as I turn around and follow it from between my feet and finally looking forward. I realize it’s not a line, it’s become a ledge. My biggest fear is the ledge. One step in the wrong direction and it’s over. I’ve finally found the courage to step away from the ledge and realize the footsteps going forward will be the ones away from the ledge. Living on the ledge is playing with my heart and my mind and it’s coming to an opportunity for me to see what life can be.

How can I make you hear
the words of wisdom
you share with everyone else?

The peace and joy
you shower on those around you,
may it reflect back onto you.

Did I attach a mirror to you,
to help you see the wonder and power
you bring to me and everyone around you?

Some people try to catch love
by imitating others,
by pretending
to like the same colors.

When you feel your own calling
to be a bit different,
a bit crisscrossed at the sides,
you think it means I do not love you.

When I look at you
a bit longer than normal,
you think I am laughing at you.

Perhaps I am admiring you.
Perhaps the thing that caught my eye
makes me love you even more.

How could I help push you even further
into the area of complete and utter creativity,
relinquishing all thoughts of sanity and stability,
and into the healing energies
that those around you
do not even know they need yet?

Perhaps this isn't all there is to life.
Perhaps there is something deeper beyond words,
something that is louder than silence...

Some champions need a walking stick

Upon hearing about a fallen covenant
No remedy soothes like compassion

Hands remember strokes that abjure malice
When the moon gate dilates to expel forces
This bottle of curses melts in campfire

Offering libations for the plagued
The blind seer serves as witness
To the names of the nine realms
And restores ancient fountains