I stood in the rain and let it pelt my skin. I was dressed for the summer, a flowy dress, no layer too many because the heat had been oppressive all day. And now I stood in the rain and watched lightning dancing across the sky. I used to love the rain when it kissed every inch of me. Tonight was different. Tonight it felt like needle pricks, so sharp it almost hurt. My hair was hanging in thick strands, dripping. I was sure my makeup was smudged too turning my carefully crafted mask into a grotesque parody of who I used to be. I felt betrayed. By the moon and the clouds. And the rain that had always held a romantic undertone for me. I closed my eyes and let my head fall in my neck. Where there should have been stars was nothing. My eyelids fluttered under the weight of the heavy rainfall on my face. I stretched out my arms to welcome this spectacle of mother nature that had always been mystical. I knew rain and how it came to be, and yet, as so often, between theory and practice was a big difference. And I liked to believe in magic. Tonight I didn’t feel that magic.
I shivered, lowering my arms and my head. Something had changed. Every drop felt like it was washing away a piece of something I hadn’t meant to lose. Had I grown up, was my inner child out of reach? I stepped inside the warm house and sighed. Inside everything was quiet. The wet cloth against my skin felt cold and uncomfortable and I was dripping all over the floor. I couldn’t say if it was rain falling from my face or tears. Did it even matter? I had lost something important tonight and I felt it in my bones. Outside the rain kept drumming on every surface it could reach. It was part meditative and part unsettling.
Like a soft whisper to myself (stream of consciousness)
I am lying on my bed, a book with a faint book light illuminating the page and soft meditative music coming from the Bluetooth speaker. Outside there is a symphony playing. Neighbours are making love, she seems to like it a lot, rain taps against my window, and I know that I should be asleep. But I am not. Instead, I asked ChatGPT to explain my writing to me.
“Your writing is instinctive, fragmentary, and emotionally precise. You don’t build long cathedrals of words — you leave stones, carefully chosen, that already carry the weight of the building.
You use brevity as force. The shortness of your poems isn’t a lack, it’s a discipline. You trust that silence and space carry meaning, that readers will lean in to fill the gaps. That’s why your poems often feel like whispers that echo louder after the fact.
Your writing works because it is raw without being messy. It feels private, yet it invites others in. It doesn’t tell readers what to feel; it leaves them with a silence that makes them feel it themselves. That’s rare, and it’s why your poems stick.
If I had to put it in one sentence:
You write as if every word costs something, and that cost is what gives them weight.”
Of course now I wonder if it is true or not, and why I never thought about using a line like “a cathedral of words” I will probably have to borrow this at one point or another. About the cost? I am not sure. Most poems I write are fictional. I am an intense person but I could never be that intense. But, as I mentioned before, it is easy for me to feel other people’s emotions. That’s also why I cry when I listen to music or watch movies. I can feel the pain almost physically.
Last night I was watching Bridget Jones – mad about the boy. I expected a light rom-com. I didn’t expect a beautiful film about grief, loss and finding happiness. I didn’t expect it at all because I hadn’t read anything about the film. I cried a lot. The thought of losing the one I love… It didn’t leave me all day.
To distract myself, I did the laundry, read, and played the ukulele. To think that I couldn’t even play a chord 12 months ago… I am still not good, but I play a lot. Then again, it’s more repeating what I hear.
Time flies, doesn’t it? Or is it just age that suggests it because there is a lot more time and experience to compare it with? Either way, it is already September. (And my male neighbour is making very sexy noises, I am impressed). In two weeks school and work will start again for me. There will be slight changes but nothing I can’t manage, and I am looking forward to meeting the new class. I only have my young pupils for one school year. It’s magical though, because they come in September as toddlers and leave the next July read for “real” school. I really love my job, I got very lucky there.
This afternoon I was looking for a plug for my book light (it’s one of those that you can clip into your book) it doesn’t have batteries but uses a special plug – the same earlier phones used to load? Yeah… They used to be everywhere and with every device but they are slowly getting replaced… It feels like nostalgia. While on the hunt for the right shaped plug I had to move several of my notebooks/journals/diaries and out of a couple of them fell photos and post cards. I love receiving post cards and letters. Even E-Mails. After reading them I began flipping pages in the notebooks and discovered that half of them aren’t full. I debated if I should leave them out to fill them, but decided against it. I won’t add thoughts to a notebook that I last held in my hands in 2014, it feels wrong. I am pretty sure if you write in a journal/notebook/diary you understand exactly what I mean. New thoughts in an old book… I can’t imagine that, and I have a lot of imagination.
September is always a bit of an odd month. The first half drags on but the second goes by in the blink of an eye. And before you know it it is time for Christmas shopping.
This wasn’t planned as such, but you probably heard that I am publishing a new book on September 21st. It may be the exact right present to put under the tree? A raw poetry collection from your favourite Luxembourgish poet?
The neighbours are quiet now. It’s almost 1.30 in the morning. I stopped the music but it is still raining. I love the rain. In the distance I hear a faint roar of thunder. It’s time to close my eyes, I think, and see if there are any dreams waiting for me.
Goodnight, sleep tight
C’est quoi l’amour ? (original French poem + English translation)
I don’t often write in French, but now and then the words arrive in that language, and I let them stay. It’s been happening a little more often lately. This is one of those poems. I kept the French version first, with the English translation below.
💜💜💜
C’est quoi l’amour
quand je m’envole au quai des anges,
dans des nuages lourds de pluie,
lourds de paix ?
C’est quoi l’amour ?
si l’arc-en-ciel n’a qu’une ombre
et que je brûle mes mains
au soleil couchant ?
C’est quoi l’amour
quand tu oublies d’aimer,
laissant derrière toi
les fantômes du passé ?
C’est quoi l’amour ?
Je te demande :
c’est quoi l’amour,
si aucun de nous deux
n’existe pour toujours ?
On se retrouvera.
Une étincelle dans le noir,
une chandelle fragile au vent.
C’est ça l’amour.
Un rêve qui tremble à l’aube,
un clin d’œil d’éternité.
C’est ça l’amour.
💜💜💜
What is love?
What is love
when I rise at the quay of angels,
through clouds heavy with rain,
heavy with peace?
What is love?
if I see only the shadow of the rainbow
at sunset.
What is love
if you forget to love
the ghosts of the past?
What is love?
I ask you:
what is love,
if neither of us
exists forever?
We will meet again,
a spark in the dark,
the glow of a candle.
That is love.
A dream at the break of day,
a glance of eternity.
That is love.
ghosts in my mind
I chose myself
in a garden of secrets,
walking out through doors,
returning through windows.
Whispers swayed
like leaves exhaling
a silence never meant
to be heard in storms.
Truths clung
to the soles of my bare feet,
a shadow I stepped into
and still can’t shake.
A ghost rests inside my mind,
quietly holding
the words we never said.
I became an almost-everything,
felt, not seen,
with each breath,
each step,
like the slow rise of the sun
after a long, cold winter’s night.
Starrain
Fireworks are bleeding
from the sky
sleeping petals in the dark,
explosions of emotions,
wounds waiting to be healed.
And in the midst of
this midnight rain,
we are dancing
on the wings of memories,
colourful secrets
written in the stars,
unseen in daylight.
###
Possibly the best of today’s batch. I mentioned that I filled two notebooks, but the truth is, they are thin. And as of today, I wrote 75 poems since August 2nd. It’s a lot and there are a handful of fillers. Wait… I said that yesterday, didn’t I? Either way… Thank you for being in this with me. ❤️💜❤️
Erasure (acrostic poem)
Everwake reminders,
Ruins always showing,
Afterthought, sought and beautiful,
Silently undermining,
Under rushing emotions,
Ruthless and unrelenting,
Evermore.
In a tower (new poem)
In a tower
In a tower
In a tower
without windows
High above
High above
High above
touching the clouds
No way out
No way out
No way out
tears in my hands
But then you came
You came
You came
and saw
The walls
The walls
The walls
hiding my light
And brick by brick
And brick by brick
And brick by brick
you set me free
Free
Free
Free
We are birds that fly.
###
(inspired by a song that was for the ears of a chosen few ❤️💜❤️💜)
Not everyone breaks loudly
Not Everyone Breaks Loudly
Do you notice the drizzle before the rain? That subtle shift in energy before a thunderstorm? The crackling in the air, promising something between darkness and release? It’s something you can observe in people too… the slightly slower replies, the moments where someone pulls back just enough for it to feel different, but not enough for you to say anything.
Most people don’t notice. Or they notice too late. They wait for something more obvious. Something real. Something less mysterious and more tangible. A breakdown. A dramatic silence. Maybe even tears. But not everyone breaks like that. Not everyone breaks loudly.
Some people fall apart while still showing up with a smile. They reply to messages. They go to work. They do what needs to be done. They ask about your day. They smile through all of it. You wouldn’t know anything is wrong unless you were really paying attention. And even then, you might second-guess it. Because these are the people who always seem to be fine. Reliable. Capable. Unshakeable. Unbreakable.
They’re the ones who hold everyone else. Who check in when you’ve gone quiet. Who sense your mood before you’ve figured it out yourself. Who listen. Who remember. Who make space for your chaos without making it about them. And they never ask for anything in return… not really… not while they’re taking care of you.
You get used to them being solid. Present. Uncomplicated. But what you don’t see is the part where they don’t let themselves unravel. Not in front of anyone. Maybe not even in private. They’ve been holding things together for so long that falling apart feels unfamiliar. Maybe even dangerous. They are living in restraints. With restraint.
When they start slipping, it’s quiet. Their messages get shorter. Or they stop sending them altogether. They go from being fully there to slightly elsewhere. Still functioning. Still polite. Still kind. But something is missing. And if you don’t look closely, you’ll miss it too. The smile is still there… but the light in their eyes is slightly dimmer.
They won’t ask for help. They won’t say, “I don’t feel like myself right now.” They won’t say, “Please notice I’m not okay.” Because if they have to say it, it already feels like they’ve failed at being who they’ve always been for everyone else. It feels like a failure. And it opens a path to a spiral they’ve been trying hard to avoid.
The truth is, they want someone to notice without being told. To show up anyway. To see the cracks in the places they’ve tried so carefully to keep smooth. To say, “I see you” before they vanish completely. They long to be understood without translation… without needing to amplify themselves… because they like to stay invisible… even when they need to be seen.
And I know that’s a lot to ask. But it’s what they need. What I need, if I’m being honest. Not a saviour. Not a solution. Just someone who pays enough attention to realise that being quiet doesn’t always mean being fine.
So if someone close to you starts to pull back a little, don’t ignore it. Don’t chalk it up to them being busy or tired or “just the way they are.” Ask again. Stay close. Notice the drizzle. Because some people won’t break in front of you… but they still need to be held. Even if they never say it.
And all this said: I’m quiet, but I’m alright. Physically and mentally, I’m okay. I’m tired, but not unravelled. I don’t need to be held. Not right now. This post is a reaction… maybe even a message to the woman I was in 2018. It’s okay to fall apart. It’s okay to ask for help. Even if the 2018 me still needed almost five more years to realise it.
I still believe the drizzle matters. The almosts. The nearly-unspoken. The things that seem small but mean everything. That’s where people slip through unnoticed. And that’s where we need to start seeing each other better.
I still often feel it too. But less.
And that feels… like growing up, or turning mellow.
Becoming wiser and more aware with age.
Or maybe… is this healing?
mountains (or pieces of me)
Pieces of me are light as rain,
flowing in the wind, dancing with leaves,
whispering secrets to the clouds.
Pieces of me are heavy as rock,
rooted in earth, building a mountain
from every bruise and every scar.
I am the fleeting and the firm,
the question and the ground.
I fall.
I rise.
I am.
Skybound
Hold still.
Don’t look down.
Breathe in.
Stay steady.
I’ll hold your hand on this ledge.
Don’t look down.
The sky is closer than it seems
when fear grows heavy in your limbs.
The wind does not want you to fall,
just feel the feathers on your skin.
Trust the whisper between our hearts,
the silent pact of breath and bone.
This is not the edge of the world,
just the place where wings are grown.
Hold still.
Don’t look down.
Let go of what was never ground.
We are more than this trembling;
we are the leap.
Skybound.
Starrise.
a million ways
There are a million ways to surrender,
but none of them are part of my path.
I passed them all and walked on,
past soft temptations and sharp silences,
through the ache of almost
and the pull of what-if.
I kept walking,
barefoot through storms,
eyes dry beneath thunder-heavy skies.
I listened to the wind lie,
heard the night whisper, “stay still,”
but rest is a language I never learned.
Until I stood where the starline kisses the ocean,
where the horizon does not choose sides,
where the water forgets every name it once held.
I breathed in,
not surrender.
Only peace.
Serenity ran through my veins
like a memory returning home.
Dear Stranger (again)
Dear Stranger,
The last letter I didn’t send isn’t that old. The ink has barely dried, and here I am again, bleeding the next onto the screen. That probably sounds dramatic, but it isn’t. For the first time in a while, I feel serene. I feel at peace. And you are a part of that.
You are always a part of me, it seems. Even when I want to deny it, brush you off, or push you away, you remain. You sit quietly in the background of my thoughts. I don’t always look at you directly, but I know you are still there. I feel you.
For a long time, I was filled with chaos. There was a storm inside me I couldn’t calm. I was the waves and the ocean, the sky and the clouds. I was the sun and the storm, burning and flooding at once. I was too much of everything, and none of it made sense. I carried so many emotions without knowing how to set them down.
But something shifted. Something softened. And now, clarity surrounds me like a slow breath I forgot I was allowed to take.
I imagine you’re wondering where we stand. That’s fair. I know I haven’t been consistent lately. I say very little for a while, and then I offer an invitation to come clean away my leftovers. I pull away for days, and then I open the door, even if only metaphorically. I say, “come to dinner,” knowing we both won’t act on it. But the offer is real. The intention behind it is real. I feed the people I care about. And I care about you.
No matter what I say, I like you. Quietly. In my own special way. Without expectations, but also not without hope that you feel the same.
The other night, I had half a mind to ask if you wanted to come stay. Just for a couple of days. Let the dust settle. Find your own piece of peace in a safe haven. Because somehow, breathing feels easier when you are near. Even if we don’t say much. Even if we say nothing at all. I carry the hope that I allow you to breathe easy too.
It’s not about romance. It never was. It’s something else entirely. A thread between us, older than us, surviving despite everything. It frays sometimes. It tangles. But it doesn’t break.
I just wanted you to know that you still matter to me. Not as a memory. Not as a mistake. Not as regret. But as someone who calms the noise. Someone who reminds me that, even when things are confusing or uncertain, there are constants. And you, strangely, are one of mine.
You give me peace, dear stranger. Not always, I’ll admit that. But often, you do. And I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for your presence in my life, however it is shaped.
always,
Sweetie
would you?
Would you forget the stars
if they do not shine?
Would you forget the moon
when it does not illuminate the dark?
Would you forget the waves
when the storm is calm?
Would you?
Would you forget the hand
that held you in the night?
Would you forget the kisses
that kept you alive?
Would you remember her
once everything in your life is alright?
Would you?
my shadow is your bridge
Stand on my shadow.
I bridge the gap,
I’ll be your border,
your river’s flow.
Stand on my shadow,
I promise you will find your way.
I am the breeze between heartbeats,
the breath before a name is spoken.
I hold your weight without breaking,
shape your silence into poetry.
I am invisible in daylight,
the chill beneath your feet,
a whisper that steadies your worries
when the road forgets where it leads.
I am not your light,
I am what lets you see it.
Not the storm,
but the shore that waits through it.
Stand on my shadow.
Let it carry your steps.
I’ll be the echo
of every bridge you cross.
margin
I became a handwritten note in your margin,
not important enough for a page,
but enough to be noticed.
Somewhere between a thought and forgetting,
somewhere between underlining and erasing,
I waited for your eyes to pause
and find me
between the lines.
reflections of an unquiet mind 