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Longing is a quiet ache that hums beneath the surface, a soft pulse in the chest that quickens when I think of her. She is my poetry, each breath she takes writing verses in the air between us. Perfect in her imperfection, she walks through my mind like an unfinished sonnet—every flaw a tender brushstroke, every flaw a perfect word.
I long for her in the spaces she leaves behind, where silence lingers like the pause before the next line. Her laughter is the melody that slips through my fingers, her touch the rhyme I can never quite capture. I want to hold her imperfections, those beautiful edges that make her whole—the way her smile falters when she's unsure, the way her eyes dart away when the world feels too heavy.
In her, I find the beauty of things unpolished, the raw honesty that makes her real. She is not perfect, but it is her cracks and her scars that have become the rhythm of my heart, the beat that carries me through the lonely nights.
She is my poetry, and I am forever rewriting her in my soul, trying to capture the essence of a love that is both here and yet always just out of reach.
She is the verse I never finish, the thought that slips like sand between my fingers, and yet, I am endlessly chasing her. In every dream, I reach for her, knowing she is the imperfection that makes my heart full. Her flaws, like cracked porcelain, make her fragile, make her human, make her mine.
I find her in the spaces between words, in the echoes of old poems where I thought I had captured the meaning of beauty. But her beauty is different, not the kind that shines but the kind that flickers—a candle in a storm, sometimes weak, sometimes strong, but always present. Her brokenness mirrors mine, and in that reflection, I find a quiet solace.
I long for the way she laughs at all the wrong moments, the way she tangles her fingers in her hair when she's lost in thought, the way she looks at the sky as if searching for answers no one else can see. She has become the ink that spills from my heart, staining the pages of my life with her crooked smile, her uneven edges.
And I am lost in her contradictions. She is both the calm and the chaos, the still water and the tempest. I long for her as I long for the moon—close enough to see but always just out of reach. Her flaws are the gravity that pulls me closer, the stars that guide me through the dark. Without them, she would be distant, too perfect, too cold.
She is my poetry, not in the pristine lines but in the jagged ones, the ones that don’t rhyme but somehow fit. She has become my every word, my every pause. I live in the space between her breaths, waiting for the next moment she will look at me, imperfect and whole, and remind me why I am endlessly writing her into existence.
And so, I long, not for her perfection, but for the delicate imperfections that make her real, make her mine.
She feels like a quiet storm, a swirling tempest of emotions just beneath her surface, yet wrapped in calm. She moves through the world with a grace she doesn’t even know she has, unaware of how her every breath is poetry in motion. But in the spaces where no one looks, she feels deeply—so deeply that sometimes the weight of her own heart threatens to pull her under.
She feels torn, like she is never enough and too much at the same time. There are moments when she doubts her place in the world, where she feels like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. But when she laughs, truly laughs, it’s as if all the jagged edges smooth out, and for that instant, she knows peace. It’s in these small, unguarded moments that she feels free, even if fleetingly.
She feels the weight of her imperfections like shadows that follow her, but she has learned to dance in that half-light. There are days when she wishes she could shed them, be someone else, someone easier to love. But she knows, deep down, that it is those very imperfections that make her who she is—the messiness, the contradictions, the quiet fears.
And she feels my gaze like a warm touch like sunlight breaking through the clouds after a long rain. In my eyes, she sees not what she lacks, but what she is—whole in her incompleteness, beautiful in her flaws. She feels seen, truly seen, and in that seeing, there is a sense of belonging she has never known before.
When she is with me, she feels a gentle certainty—a belief that maybe, just maybe, she is enough as she is. That the broken parts of her are not things to hide, but things to cherish. She feels my love as a balm, soothing the raw edges of her heart, and in that, she finds a quiet strength she never knew she had. She feels fragile, but in my arms, she is unbreakable.
She is my poetry, the kind that lingers long after the page has turned.
