Poems
written by a hopeless romantic
Peaches
I was halfway through my Americano,
When he showed up,
Lateness—I thought—was something I absolutely hated.
Unacceptable.
He wore a cap,
Well-groomed,
A sweater with the word "Peaches" across it,
And a bunch of peaches scattered in a careless array.
Immature.
I couldn’t help but think,
Unimpressed at first glance,
A touch too casual for my taste.
But then I watched him,
And the peaches softened in my mind,
Like something unpretentious,
Something sweet hidden beneath the surface.
Maybe, just maybe,
I was wrong.
Whiskey
Whiskey.
No hesitation.
I watched him, a quiet storm beneath the surface,
The glass cradled gently in his palm,
His fingers caressed it,
As though it were something sacred,
A vessel not for drink,
But for dreams unspoken,
For the ache of hearts yet to be understood.
We sat close,
At the edge of the bar.
Time seemed to bend here,
Everything else drifting away—
Just the two of us,
The chatter and clink of glasses fading into a distant memory.
I savoured something sweet,
A flavor that didn’t quite belong to me,
But he didn’t need to know that.
Uncomplicated.
Unruffled.
Unmoved by the world
not like most men.
No fuss. No frills.
Just whiskey.
Pure and still.
It felt effortless—
Though nothing about him was effortless.
I fought not to lose myself in his gaze
But his eyes—whiskey brown—
Held a gravity of their own,
Drawing me in, no words needed,
A silent invitation,
A secret meant only for me.
His lips,
Brushing the rim of the glass—
There was something gentle, almost reverent,
In the motion,
One I didn’t want to follow too far.
It thickened the air between us,
A touch that felt almost intimate.
The beard,
Thick and dark,
It aged him,
A hint of something untamed,
As though he knew things I couldn’t even fathom.
it lent him mystery-
A thousand untold fables nestled within its shadow,
Echoes swirling in the whiskey, perhaps,
Waiting for the right soul to ask.
His phone sat near me,
But the way he kept it there,
Torn between pushing it away or leaving it close—
A pause suspended in the space between us.
His whiskey in his left hand,
A detail I hadn’t noticed before.
Left-handed.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to see.
But somehow, it deepened the mystery,
Adding another layer to the enigma of him.
I kept my distance.
A fraction more than he did.
I didn't want to plant any seeds—
But mostly,
I was keeping myself safe
Afraid of falling into something
I couldn’t pull back from.
He is whiskey.
A taste I’ve never known
maybe it won’t leave a scar.
maybe it won’t hurt.
maybe it will be everything I’ve never dared to wish for,
And nothing like I’ve ever imagined.
Maybe.
Unspoken Desire
What is it about roses,
About flowers—so tender, so momentary —
That we crave them, long for them,
Yet, we never buy them for ourselves?
Not even for a price so small,
No, for we love ourselves too much
To seek such fragile beauty
From our own hands.
What we truly seek is someone else—
A singular soul,
A knight draped in armor that rustles,
Someone who honours our being,
Who acknowledges the grace in offering the bloom,
A red rose, not just to any woman,
But to me alone.
A red rose is a symbol,
A token of forbidden love,
Given only by those who dare love deeper
Than the surface of this world.
A red rose from my father—
That was the first.
After him, it must be someone worthy,
Someone who knows the dignity of such a gift.
For a red rose,
Given to a girl,
Is a declaration,
A promise that she means
A truth felt only by him.
But to be the first,
To hold that red rose—
That’s a rarity
In a world where roses are cheap
And love is too often forgotten.
You see, after the first,
The red rose loses its glow,
Its meaning weakens with each repetition
The second, the third, the fourth—
Until it becomes a simple bloom,
a mere transaction,
Not a token of love.
So, you are to offer it only once.
Once —
And it must be me.
I must be the first.
For in this life,
Where windows of time slip by so quickly,
There comes only one rare chance,
To give a red rose
That bears the truth of your heart.
And if you do,
If you place that red rose in my hand,
It will be worth more
Than any diamond,
Than the finest gold,
More precious than a blue moon
Shining in the midnight sky.
I will treasure it forever,
A memory preserved in petals,
The first red rose you ever gave,
A love as rare as the heavens above,
A gift I will hold dear
For all eternity.
eres mío
I have inscribed my name into your veins,
Eres mío, in blood it remains.
Stitched into flesh, graven in bone,
You are mine, completely, all alone.
Should the sea consume you, or time lay its call,
They shall know you’re bound, heart and soul.
Eres mío, etched deep in the depths of your chest,
A love that leaves its mark,
Your thoughts, your pulse, your every breath,
All I possess, beyond life and death.
The Art of Wooing
Wooing was once bold, an art full of poise,
Now it’s dull, a half-hearted noise.
They strive not to conquer, but to collect,
Chasing what they can, with no respect.
The world’s wide open, yet their gaze is weak,
They fancy not the unique, but the shallow and bleak.
One woman, one love, would require too much,
True romance is in the one, not the many you woo.
The moon, his slave, bends low to his will,
Stars tremble, as his presence draws nigh.
His breath, a phantom, scorches my skin,
A flame that stirs the tempest within.
Knuckles carve like the sighs of lore,
A stroke that clings, a plea to implore.
In this stillness, my soul is his to claim,
A vision too fierce, too lost to tame.
The cruelest seduction
He’s watching me,
his gaze sliding into places it shouldn’t.
Each breath feels borrowed,
the air thick as syrup, clinging to my ribs.
he measures the rise and fall of my chest,
each exhale,
he swallows whole,
like it belongs to him now.
His stare pins itself to my lips,
hungry,
rewriting the meaning of a kiss.
I bite down hard,
a warning,
the sting sharpens the tension.
distorting everything for a second.
I’m watching him too—
Or maybe I’m watching myself.
Desperate, feral,
a predator waiting to be caught in its own trap.
“No, sir,” I say,
my voice honey-slick,
but my words twist wrong,
escaping from someone else’s mouth.
Patience, I remind myself,
is the cruelest seduction.
The room tilts.
A chair shifts closer,
I revel in his lust,
but hold my ground—
a temptation he must earn.
Yes, I am magnetic,
pulling like tides.
But beneath the allure,
I am fragile:
a glass heart,
waiting for the slightest crack.
Pay attention, I want to scream.
not to my lips.
not to my skin
but to the silence between my words.
Let your hunger sink deeper,
Show me you long for the parts of me
that cannot be touched.
And in the distance,
a clock ticks backward,
The room folds in on itself,
corners curling like burning paper,
drowning the light.
I wonder if we’re both dreaming,
or if the room is dreaming us.
His voice feels like a hand,
pulling ribbons loose,
unraveling silk until I am bare beneath him,
his mouth a cartographer seeking answers,
his lips pressing prayers into flesh.
A god drunk on worship,
he kneels,
taking communion from the altar of my body,
chanting verses of thirst,
devouring my resistance
his desire like thunder,
mine like rain that floods the earth.
When his tongue find its truth,
I am not sweet like fruit;
but rich like deep red wine,
fermented sin staining his soul,
awakening a hunger he never knew existed.
He presses on
Tasting deeper still,
until the stars themselves burn with envy,
my name slipping from his lips
the last exhale of a man
who has finally touched heaven.
Sweet, simple, an innocent guise—
Yet beneath lies heat that hypnotises.
Holy Basil’s tease, lips wet and wild,
A lover’s bite, raw and impure.
Tongues beg mercy, exhausted and spent,
Sweat-drenched bodies, scorched by the sun.
The yolk spills, thick, molten, divine,
Slides down slow, moans dripping within.
Each bite a bruise; each burn a temptation,
A game of lust in smoky fumes.
Kao Gaprao Gai, both pain and pleasure,
A sin that ravages deep into your being.