A Whisky, Darkly

I don’t write for the masses. I write in fire, in myth. Grief, and elegance, riddles and shadow across several voices. I write for those awake at 3:33 a.m.,who reread it in silence, and feel something crack open they can’t quite name, but haunts the next day.

I wasn’t holding on because I needed you. I was holding space because I chose to. And when I let go, it wasn’t a fall. It was a return.

I didn’t love you like a man loves a woman. I loved you like myth untouched, unreadable, only real in the liminal space between dreams and illusion. I kept the story alive, and you watched it unfold.

“In a society that values conformity and obedience, the individual who dares to think for himself is often banished and ridiculed. These non-conformists, these outcasts, are the true pioneers of society, the ones who push us to question our assumptions and broaden our horizons.…

more vibe than substance

just because it's not real doesn't mean i don't feel it

I've rewritten my corner of the world so precisely that anyone who enters it either rises to meet me... or disappears.

Olive chinos. Edward Greens. White shirt, no tie. Blue Blazer. Black leather bracelets. Leather-bound Omega glinting. I walked in...quiet presence. Earned, not feigned. Focused. She looked up from her desk and smiled. Eyes acknowledging the weight I carry without saying a word.

Presence isn’t won by performance. It’s earned; through silence, through truth. Through trust. Fire doesn’t chase. It waits to see who walks through it. It’s met, not consumed.

I didn’t write for her. I wrote through her. She was just the aperture. The fire came from me. I didn’t love her for what she gave. I loved her despite what she couldn’t.

Not every fire dies. Some just hide in the shadows of a life that looks complete.

I loved a version of you that shrank before my eyes. I remember your fire.

She chose stability. Survival with a name, wealth, a safe life. I became all of that; without her. Not to win, just to live.

I never demanded exclusivity. I had someone. So did she. There was something sacred between us; unspoken, real. I didn’t wait. I just left the door open. She closed it quietly. I let it stay shut, and turned the lock. She lost the only man who could’ve made the story real.

I only want to read what’s true.

I’m the only one reading an actual book on the train. Everyone else is lost in their mind mirrors, searching for the end of the scroll.

i wish you were a softer wound

Some secrets feel like memory. Some, like surrender.

I’ve seen war and know what love is.

I loved louder than the fiction could hold.

“Do you live around here.” She said. “Just down the road,” I replied. She sat the iced tea onto the table. “You should come back again, our chef is talented.” She stood and spoke with me for a long while and when I left she brought two boxes of rolls. “To give to a friend.”