I feel her before she comes,
like dawn warming the edges of night.
Her nearness thrums through the silence,
a heartbeat the world listens to.
Even the wind slows to taste her name,
and I, I become a prayer, waiting to be answered.
Her eyes hold a language older than words,
pulling me into their calm storm.
Every glance writes poetry across my skin,
each smile softens the edges of my doubts.
Her touch is not flame, but light,
Light that teaches darkness how to love.
I remember the way her laughter wove through stillness,
how it stayed, gentle and endless,
like rain deciding to rest on petals.
The air bends around her presence,
and I swear my soul breathes in her arms,
finding its home where her warmth begins.
When she is near, time forgets to move.
My thoughts lose their walls, my heart, its guard.
There is nothing left but the cadence of breath,
the soft promise between our eyes,
and the tender madness of being known
without ever needing to speak.
If love could be touched, it would feel like her,
a slow bloom beneath the ribs,
a soft yearning that never asks to end.
She is the pause between my heartbeats,
the reason silence feels like music,
and longing feels like grace.
And when she leaves, she doesn’t really go.
Her warmth remains in the corners of my chest,
her voice stays folded in the folds of memory.
Even distance cannot dim her ,
for she lives not in sight, but in soul,
and my soul has never learned to let her go.
@doddyokelo
Tag: love
What the Night Knows
There are nights her absence feels like smoke,
curling through my chest, choking the calm.
I taste her memory in the hollow of silence,
where shadows bruise the edges of my thoughts.
Even the moon looks away, ashamed to watch
a man unravel for what he cannot hold.
Her scent is a ghost of warmth that drifts still,
sliding through the dark like forbidden mercy.
I reach for her in the ruins of sleep,
but touch only air that trembles and retreats.
Longing becomes a wound I tend in secret,
Pain that ripens instead of fades.
Desire throbs beneath my ribs, uninvited,
a wild animal pacing in the dark of my chest.
It claws at reason, begging for release,
but all I have are sounds, soft and cruel.
Her voice, a phantom flame,
burns through the marrow of my restraint.
Every breath betrays me,
it fills with her, spills her, breaks me.
The world outside is still and indifferent,
yet inside, storms whisper her name.
She exists in the spaces between heartbeats,
where silence grows teeth and feeds on hope.
If love is holy, then longing is its sin,
and I am forever kneeling at its altar.
I’ve bartered peace for memory,
and find myself worshipping what once was touch.
Her absence wears the scent of rain,
sweet, cold, and never staying.
So I burn in quiet devotion,
in the hollow glow of what could have been.
The night knows my secret, it sighs it low,
under the veil of stars, patient and cruel.
I am the thirst that calls her name in vain,
the light that dies waiting to be seen.
@doddyokelo
A Place Only We Know
Meet me,
in the quiet tremor between your heartbeat and your breath,
where silence breathes itself into longing,
and the shadows of your heart whisper soft songs
only the two of us can hear.
There, love hides barefoot,
waiting for us to arrive without words,
without fear, only pulse and promise.
Meet me among the stars,
where ambition burns like incense,
and the galaxies whisper of us in light-years.
See how my eyes hold constellations
that spell your name in patient fire,
how even the dark bends slightly
to make room for our glow.
Meet me where the ocean exhales,
where the horizon trembles like a secret,
and salt baptizes every forgotten pain.
Let the tide pull us clean of yesterday,
let the water write forgiveness
across our skin until we gleam
with something close to forever.
Meet me in the forest’s open breath,
where trees lean close as witnesses,
and sunlight spills like honey between their fingers.
Here, the earth sings beneath our feet,
a lullaby older than sorrow.
We’ll rest where roots remember love
more deeply than words ever could.
Meet me upon the drifting clouds,
that tender border where heaven blushes
against the skin of the world.
Let’s waltz on vapor,
our laughter scattering like rain over cities asleep,
each drop a note of joy
falling back to where we began.
Meet me atop the mountain’s breath,
where air is thin but truth is thick.
Breathe me in until your lungs forget
where you end and I begin.
Let the wind carry our names into eternity,
two syllables of devotion
resonating through stone and sky alike.
Meet me, my love,
not in time, but beyond it.
Not in place, but in presence.
Anywhere the soul dares to open,
any moment brave enough to bloom.
Meet me there,
where everything is still,
and we are infinite.
Daughter of The Mountain
I met her on an afternoon
when the sun burned low,
spilling gold across the earth
as though the day itself leaned close
to let slip its quiet confessions.
She was slim-thick,
a flame held steady in the wind,
with a presence that filled the space
more surely than height or breadth could command.
Her skin bore the quiet radiance
of fertile Kenyan earth after rain,
luminous, alive with the memory of rivers.
Her beauty was the beauty that stays,
like a song remembered long
after the singer has gone.
Her eyes were wide, dark pools,
holding the innocence of unspoken dreams,
and the fierce pride of the hills,
green and ancient,
keepers of stories older than memory.
When she looked, it was not merely at you,
it was into you,
as though the soul were something
she had always known,
and only sought to confirm.
Her laughter was small, quick,
yet it carried,
like the delicate chiming of cowbells
drifting from a far valley.
Her movements, precise, almost shy,
the way a swallow folds its wings before flight,
yet within them was a grace
no stage could rehearse.
She was not made of ornaments or excess
but of silences,
of natural songs,
of that soft balance between fragility
and unyielding strength.
To call her beautiful
would be to simplify what was infinitely complex.
She was the outline of twilight
against the ridge,
the fragrance of tea leaves
crushed between fingers,
the silence of evening rain on tin roofs.
She was the Mountain itself,
its promise, its mystery,
its unbroken spirit made flesh.
And in her presence,
I felt the world pause,
as though even time leaned in
to watch her pass.
@doddyokelo
Love, Receipted
You call me lazy,
as if rest were rebellion,
as if the absence of a paycheck meant
I’d married idleness and sworn fidelity to failure.
You think I wake each morning to romance poverty,
to sip on the bitter tea of rejection
and call it breakfast.
You think I don’t hunt for work,
darling, I’ve applied so hard the internet knows my name.
I’ve learned new skills until my mind wheezes from exhaustion,
repackaged my dreams in “professional tone,”
and written cover letters that could melt granite.
Still, the silence from employers breathes louder
than any sermon on hard work.
But go on, roll your eyes like coins in a rich man’s pocket.
You love the performance of pity, don’t you?
The way you sigh,
You wear my struggle like a badge
that says “look what I tolerate.”
You hold my empty wallet against my neck
like a priest offering salvation through mockery.
Your friends, the walking bank accounts,
toast to success with imported laughter.
They look at me the way one studies
a museum exhibit labeled Before Success.
And you,
you shrink beside them,
embarrassed to be seen loving someone
who doesn’t come with receipts.
I know I can’t afford dinner dates,
but baby, I can give you poetry,
written with hunger’s ink,
where every word costs a piece of my pride.
You want steak, I offer metaphors,
you want champagne, I bring conversation.
But apparently, love without a tip is just noise.
You say I make excuses,
as if failure were a choice I make before breakfast.
Man, I’ve tried,
tried until my hope broke its spine
from bending too long under your expectations.
But effort doesn’t trend, does it?
It’s not sexy on Instagram.
You used to look at me like promise,
now you look at me like pity dressed for dinner.
Your eyes audit my worth
like a cashier scanning expired dreams.
You don’t even say it out loud,
but your silence spells liability.
Love, it seems, needs a payslip now.
So go ahead, call me disgusting,
a broke ass night certified by circumstance.
Laugh with your friends,
they’ve earned their arrogance.
I’ll be here, broke but breathing,
scribbling poems on the back of rejection letters,
because even in poverty, darling,
I write better than they ever will live.
@doddyokelo
Light of My Days
There are many names for a woman,
but none that speak your fullness,
you are dawn in its first whisper of gold,
a soft psalm wrapped in morning light,
a cathedral of calm where my heart kneels,
finding faith again in the sound of your voice.
You walk as if the earth remembers your kindness;
flowers lift their faces in your passing.
Your laughter, a river that knows its way home,
sculpts joy across the landscape of our days.
Even silence becomes sacred when shared with you,
for you breathe poetry into the air itself.
Once, you were a girl with suns in her eyes,
and the world crowned you mother,
not with jewels, but with gentle burdens,
and you bore them like grace itself.
Your hands stitched comfort into chaos,
turning hunger into hope, noise into hymn.
In your eyes, I have seen God’s tender art,
the patience of oceans, the courage of storms.
You are the soft peace that follows heartbreak,
the reason broken wings learn to fly again.
Your love has been both shelter and sword,
cutting fear from the edges of my name.
Every word I’ve ever spoken carries your echo,
each dream is scented faintly with your prayers.
You are the unseen flow in my becoming,
the quiet architect of my strength.
When I stumbled, you became the ground beneath me,
steady, forgiving, endlessly near.
What language could ever hold your worth?
What poet could bind your light in ink?
You are not to be described, but felt,
like rain, or grace, or home after exile.
And so, I do not thank you with words,
but with the life you helped me build.
Here’s to you, Mum,
keeper of warmth, bearer of mornings,
woman of endless tomorrows.
May joy drape you like silk at sunrise,
and time bow gently before your smile.
You are every beautiful thing I know.
Happy Birthday,
for the world grew softer the day you were born,
and I have been blessed to call its miracle Mother.
@doddyokelo
Dreams of You
There’s a smooth quiet caressed across the night tonight, a velvet calm that drifts between heartbeats and carries your name upon the slow breath of the wind. I can almost hear your laughter threading through the silence like moonlight through lace, reminding me what peace feels like when love finds its way home.
To be loved by you is to rest inside calm waters after a storm, warmth flowing like quiet light, a tender ease that tells my heart it has arrived. It’s not mere affection, it’s devotion that mends the soul and slows even the restless stars.
I find myself missing your company more than words could dare explain. You have that gentle way of turning absence into longing and longing into poetry. Even from afar, your presence stays like a soft perfume in the air, written through my thoughts, through the gentle cadence of my breath, through the still corners of my room.
Tonight, the world feels a little bluer, a little emptier, because I want you here beside me. I crave the comfort of your voice, the safety of your arms, the laughter that folds itself into love. You’ve become the quiet I reach for when everything else grows too loud.
So as the night settles and dreams begin to bloom, may you rest easy knowing you’re deeply loved, by me, endlessly and truly. Sleep beautifully, my love. Good night.
@doddyokelo
Tailored To Your Ego
You teach me how to love,
like a tutor with a chalk of affection,
sketching rules on my heart’s blackboard,
telling me where to pause, where to ache,
how to sing your name.
And I, the willing fool, take notes,
hoping to pass your exam of devotion.
You say, be the best person you can be,
but only when that person pleases you.
How noble, how godly, how perfectly human
to mold me into a version of you,
and call it growth.
Love, you say, is sacrifice,
but it’s always my neck on the altar.
A romance tailor-made, you claimed,
stitched with precision and care,
fitted to the edges of your comfort zone,
hemmed with your insecurities,
fastened with silent rules I never signed.
Sorry, my love, correction,
fitted not for love, but your ego’s parade.
Still, I tried.
God knows, I tried.
And in the trying, I learned,
how love can shape a man into a shadow,
how tenderness can bruise if held too tight,
how devotion, when one-sided,
becomes self-destruction in silk.
You ask what I’ve learned in return?
That your affection has terms and conditions,
your heart is a subscription service
that renews only when I bow enough,
laugh enough, obey enough.
You call me names when I forget,
darling, I’ve never seen such poetry in cruelty.
You say you can’t do this anymore,
compare me to your gallery of ghosts,
men built in marble, flawless in memory.
And still, I stand there,
a living, breathing imperfection,
learning that your love speaks fluent disappointment.
So walk, my sweet torment.
Take your lessons, your mirrors, your masks.
You’ve taught me what love is not,
and that’s worth a diploma in heartbreak.
Go, darling devil,
your absence will be my peace,
and my freedom, finally tailored to me.
The White Rose of Evening
This evening, I longed to hear
the soft murmur of your voice,
a balm to soothe my restless day,
a whisper to draw all cares away.
I hoped these tired, journeying eyes
might rest upon your face,
the gentlest vision ever known,
a beauty wrought from heaven.
One word I wished my lips could send,
a tender phrase that has no end
Sleep well, my beautiful,
you are the hymn my soul will always sing.
Do you know, how fair you are?
No star holds such a faithful star,
and in your eyes the heavens lie,
two oceans deep, where tempests die.
They hold the light of morning skies,
the tender gleam where stillness hides,
a secret world where love abides,
the endless truth of paradise.
So take these words, though soft and few,
my white rose, pure as evening dew,
no poet’s hand could dare devise
a bloom more fair than your sweet eyes.
Stay With Me
I have never known a pain this sharp,
a hurt that stays in every breath,
as if sorrow has built a home inside my chest.
I sit here drowning in my own silence,
tears spilling like tides I cannot command,
wondering how I strayed,
wondering if I’ve lost the best part of me,
you.
I keep replaying my mistakes,
each one cutting deeper than the last,
and I fear that in their shadow,
your love for me might dim.
The thought alone unmakes me.
It is a heaviness I cannot outrun,
a shame that knots itself into my bones.
If only regret could mend,
if only apologies could erase,
I would gather up every fragment of your hurt
and carry it away until you felt light again.
But healing, I know, is not so quick.
It asks for patience. It asks for trust.
“I’m sorry” feels too small,
too fragile for the weight of what I mean.
Yet it is the truth on my tongue,
and I speak it with trembling hope.
Because we have weathered storms before,
you and I,
and somehow we’ve always come through
stronger, side by side.
Still, I know you deserve better
than the hurt I’ve caused.
I hate myself for placing this burden on you.
But if your heart can find space
for one more chance,
I promise I will spend every day
proving love right again,
proving us right again.
@okelododdychitchats
okelododdychitchats 