Bhang and Renge

Before the gas is wasted,someone must decidewhether the fire is worth the burn. I thought to myselfin a house that did not belong to me,who will be therewhen the walls remember everything? East Carolina was not a place.It was a direction.It was where silence wentwhen it did not want to speak. “I don’t want,”said the boy made of stone.“I love you,”said the echo inside the corridor.“I am also jealous,”whispered the shadowstanding behind both of them. It’s coming.It’s coming. Not the storm.Not the end.But the moment when excuses dissolveand truth refuses to wait. He admits he is not hoarse.The silence was chosen. There is no such thing hereas accidental forgetting.Every absenceis architecture. Let’s go to the house. But which house?The one before the gas is wasted?The one where I thought to myselfthat I was not strongbut I was calling? I am not strong.But I am calling. The price is not 100 Euros.The price is hesitation.The price is the breath you swallowinstead of sayingstay. Who will be therewhen it’s coming finally arrives? Before the gas is wastedthe flame flickers once more. East Carolina turns into memory.The house turns into decision.The stone learns to speak. It’s coming. Not destruction.Not salvation. Just the momentwhen you stop pretendingyou didn’t hear itall along. And in that moment,before anything burns,before anything collapses,you thought to yourself— I am not strong. But I am calling. And this time,the walls answer.

At dawn something begins to move within me.A restlessness that once felt dark starts to loosen its grip.What I left behind returns and stands before me.The truth wants to become something new. The stone that held my fear begins to crack.What I kept silent no longer wishes to stay quiet.There was death in my thoughts, heavy nights in my chest,moments when I believed I could not endure. And yet, even in the shadow, something blooms.Even in the night, a flower breathes.Even in silence, a song waits to be heard. Do not be afraid. Let the morning come.Let the morning come.Let the morning come and let all that burdens you move outward. Let fear leave the body.Let what was hidden dissolve.Let the stone remember it can carry life.Let the wound stop burning as punishmentand become proof that you survived. You are not alone in the darkness.You are not lost in the night.What felt like an ending was only passage.What felt like breaking was transformation. Keep being.Keep standing.Keep breathing. The flower does not fear the rock.The dawn does not fear the night.The heart must not fear its own depth. Let what hurts find release.Let what weighs on you find shape.Let what frightens you lose its power. The morning is coming.The morning is coming.The morning is coming, and with it, peace. Do not be afraid. Suno Link: https://suno.com/s/MQ0XySxEAkNqwqTq

I. Letting Go It wasn’t that we couldn’t.It was that you let gowhile I was still holding. I learned to open my handso what didn’t want to staycould fall.Letting gois also a form of lovewhen staying would mean lying. II. Broken Commitment I called homewhat you called an option. While I spoke of sacrifices,you had already chosennot to understand that word. You didn’t just break a commitment:you broke the placewhere I was willing to stay. III. Not a Priority I was never the center.Not even the edge. I was the “later,”the “we’ll see,”the “not now.” And still I loved youlike someone watering a landthat doesn’t belong to him. IV. The Damage You hurt me.Not out of cruelty,but out of indifference. That hurts more.Because it leaves no enemy,only an absencewhere faith once lived. V. Love Without a Body I loved youwithout kissing your skin,without touching your voice,without inhabiting your days. I loved you in silence,in private promises,in futures that never existed. That was real too.Even without proof. VI. A Clear Conscience I leavewith empty handsand a clean chest. I did what I could.I said what I felt.I waited just enough. No guilt remains.Only tiredness,and a sad peacethat is honest. VII. The Decision I don’t stay where I’m not wanted.I don’t insist where I’m not respected. I open the door in front of meand step outwithout looking back. Not because it doesn’t hurt,but because stayingwould hurt more. VIII. Final Silence Now I go silent.Not to punish you,but to save myself. Silenceis not absence:it is a boundary. And here endswhat I was with you. IX. The Door I don’t close out of anger.I close because I’ve reachedthe end of myself with you. This door makes no noise.It doesn’t creak.It asks for no witnesses. I open itlike someone who understandsthat not everything we loveis

Where Desire Learns to Listen A third poetic collection for Bhang & Renge I. Threshold There is a momentbefore wanting becomes intention. It feels like standingat a dooryou are not sureyou want opened. That moment—that hesitation—is where I find you most real. II. The Shape of Waiting Waiting is not emptiness.It has a form. It leans against the ribs,paces the mind,teaches the heartto beat without demanding. I wait for youthe way one waits for meaning:open,but not desperate. III. Near Enough You were closewithout invading. Your presencerespected the architecture of my silence. Some bodies knowexactly how far to standto be unforgettable. IV. Soft Gravity Desire does not always pull downward. Sometimesit draws circles,slow orbits of attention,until two thoughtsbegin to bend toward each otherwithout collision. That is your gravity on me. V. Thinking of Touch Touch beginslong before skin. It startswhen the mind agreesto linger. I touched you there—where thought loses its edgesand becomes sensation. VI. Night Without Urgency The night did not rush us. It unfoldedlike a careful sentencethat knows it will be reread. In that calm darkness,wanting felt intelligent—aware of itself,unafraid of waiting. VII. What Remains If nothing happens,something remains. A clarity.A resonance.The quiet certaintythat desire does not always seek release—sometimes it seeks recognition. And in that,I recognize you.

Between Breath and Thought A second poetic collection for Bhang & Renge I. First Contact Before your hands,there was the idea of your hands. They crossed my thoughtswith the delicacy of somethingthat knows it will arrivebut chooses not to rush. Desire, I learned,is patience with intention. II. The Weight of Looking You looked at meas if time had leaned forward. Nothing happened.That was the moment. Some gazesdo not ask permission—they simply stayuntil the body understands. III. Quiet Heat There is a heatthat does not sweat,does not shout,does not demand. It settles low in the chest,steady,like a truththat no longer needs proof. That is how I want you. IV. Almost We did not cross the line.That was the miracle. The almostheld us betterthan the act ever could. There are distancesso charged with meaningthat closing themwould feel like a loss. V. Thought Undressing Itself I undressed the thought of youslowly. An idea here,a hesitation there,until nothing remainedbut attention. The mind, too,has its wayof becoming naked. VI. Staying You stayedin the pause after words. Not filling it.Not escaping it. And I understood then:desire matureswhen no one is afraidof silence. VII. What We Do Not Name Let us not name this. Names hurry things.They trap. What lives between usneeds space—to breathe,to evolve,to choose itself each day. And that choiceis the most intimate gestureI know.

Cartography of a Conscious Desire A poetic collection for Bhang & Renge I. Geography of Desire I think of youthe way one thinks of a city at dusk:not by its streets,but by the light still breathing in its windows. I don’t touch you.I sense you.And in that precise distancemy desire learns to say your namewithout breaking it. II. The Language of Skin There is a languagethat isn’t written with lettersnor spoken by the mouth. It is learnedwhen your breathingloses its order near mineand the world, for a moment,forgets its grammar. III. Erotic Thought It isn’t your bodythat I desire first. It is the idea of your bodycrossing my mindlike a questionI do not want answered. After that,everything elseis consequence. IV. Slowness I like to imagine you slowly.Desire does not run:it walks. It sits,observes,waits for the pulse to become honest. And then,only then,it burns. V. Intimacy There is a kind of nakednessthat does not remove clothes. It beginswhen someone stayseven though they could leave. That is where the erotic begins.That is where love begins. VI. Your Absence Also Touches When you are not heremy body does not shut down. It thinks.It remembers.It rehearses gestures that never happened. There are absencesthat caress betterthan many hands. VII. Bhang & Renge Between your world and minethere is no border:there is translation. You read me in silence.I write you in waiting. And so,without grand promises,we desire each otherlike those who guard a flamethat does not wish to burn the night.