I Wish I Could Run To You And Cry.

lulling waters

"When a man loves like wildfire" By Astrum

i do not love like petals and poetry, i love like wildfires and earthquakes— the kind of love that cracks your ribs just to make room for my name. i am not soft, i am raw. when i touch you, i mean to carve my presence into the marrow of your bones, so even if the stars forget our names, your body remembers mine. i don’t promise forever — i promise depth. the kind of depth where you drown willingly, smiling as my chaos becomes your oxygen. come close, closer— until you realize you were never made for shallow touches. you were crafted for a love that leaves fingerprints on your soul. and baby, i have never known how to touch without leaving marks. — i love like wildfire. and you were born to burn.

"i’d undress your mind first"

by Astrum.

i wouldn’t rush you.

i’d start slow —

trace the curve of your thoughts

long before i ever touched your skin.

i’d ask how you sleep when it rains,

what keeps you awake when it’s silent,

and where you ache when no one’s looking.

i’d want to know

the shape of your sigh,

the weight of your dreams,

the taste of your laugh

in the dark.

when you’d trust me enough,

i’d kiss your scars with my words,

bite your insecurities softly

between conversations,

and hold your secrets

like they were silk on my tongue.

and maybe,

if your eyes begged for it,

i’d undress you slow too.

but i promise —

your mind would be bare

long before your body ever was.

If You Were a Poem

By Astrum

If you were a poem,

I would read you in whispers under candlelight,

tracing every syllable like a secret I was never meant to know.

Your laughter would be italicized,

soft and leaning into the edges of midnight.

Your sorrows?

Those would be bold —

unafraid, unapologetically beautiful.

I would fold you into the corners of my journals,

tuck you beneath my breath,

and let no one but the moon know

how deeply I have memorized your lines.

You are the poem I never dared to write,

and yet somehow,

I’ve been reading you all my life.

My Answer Is: At Least 37

How many times today

did you picture me

face down, ass up

moaning

and gasping your name?

.

.

“I write slowly… with depth…”

Whispers Between Pages By Astrum

I have always trusted the quiet of untold stories, the soft ache that lingers between what is written and what is merely felt.

I do not chase endings — I unfold them, slowly, like paper worn thin by longing and hands that know the weight of memory.

Somewhere between ink and skin, I found my truest voice — not to speak louder, but to listen deeper to the words that choose to find me first.

The silence is unbearable.

No words are spoken but everything else is so loud.

I'm sorry if I'm difficult to deal with. I don't know how to deal with myself either.

“come closer, but don’t flinch”

> come closer, but don’t flinch when you see the places I’ve bled quietly. I am not soft in the way you expect — I am soft like wildfire, like midnight rain that forgets to be gentle. I love like this: with cracked palms, shaking breath, and a heart too heavy to float but too stubborn to drown. if you want me, know this: I won’t promise easy, but I will promise real. raw fingertips. unhidden scars. midnight confessions no one else has ever touched. come closer. and if you stay— I’ll hand you everything I’ve ever buried under my ribs.