Just the Two of Us

I want to wake while the world is still gray
and see the sun start its fire in your eyes,
to watch the morning climb your throat
and spill across the bed like spilled honey,
sticky and warm and ours.
I want to witness the exact moment
the light claims you,
making a map of every curve I know by heart.

But the day is just the waiting room for the dark.
I want the hours when the house grows quiet,
when we peel back the noise of the street
and the heavy expectations of being men and women.
I want to slide into the night with you,
rib to rib, a slow collision of heat
until my pulse finds the measured thrum of yours
and stays there.

I want the salt of your skin against my tongue,
the scent of woodsmoke and wild things
clinging to the places where we touch.
I want to be so tangled in your limbs
that the blankets feel like a burden,
nothing between us but the fever
of two people trying to beat back the cold.

Let the world break itself outside the door.
In here, there is only the press of your weight,
the velvet friction of breath on breath,
and the long, slow sinking into sleep
where my skin forgets itself
and simply becomes a part of yours.

@doddyokelo

He Spends the Gold of Her

She is beautiful, yes,
but beauty grows fangs in the dark.
She tells you she’s out with a friend,
yet her truth is curled on another man’s chest,
his heartbeat pounding, the thud of wanting,
a sound you were never allowed to hear.

His fingers roam through her hair,
slow, sure,
mapping a tenderness she once withheld.
She loves it,
the salt of his sweat,
the wild brush of his chest hair,
the animal warmth that keeps her there.

She is not busy, brother.
She is not home.
She is answering a call
you were never invited to,
the quiet work of sheets and bodies
moving without guilt.

Her phone isn’t dead,
your name is.
Blocked.
So silent you can hear your own hope collapsing.

The things she hoarded from you,
laughter, softness, time,
fall easily into his open hands.
She gives him the light she swore she never had.

Rise from the wreckage,
rebuild the kingdom of yourself.
Leave her ghost behind
and grow into your better name.

There is life beyond this wound.
And love, real love,
will meet you where you stand,
yours to keep.

@doddyokelo

Breathless

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

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.

@doddyokelo

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

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

If I Die Today

What if I were to die today, beloved, would your heart stir at all, or would the silence between us deepen into an endless grave? Would you pretend, for the eyes of the world, that you had loved me, that in the shadows of our days you carried a flame you never lit? Or would you let truth, raw and cruel, escape your lips and say, “He was never worth knowing”? I wonder how heavy my name would sound upon your tongue when spoken before mourners, how steady or broken your voice would be if asked to read the words of my eulogy. Would my absence cut through your chest like a blade, or would it wash over you like a gentle relief, as though a long burden had at last been lifted?

For often, in your weariness, I hear a sentence unspoken, that my love itself wearies you, that my presence is not balm but weight. And I, foolish in devotion, still stretch myself toward you like a tree bends toward a reluctant sun. You say you are tired, yet it sounds to me as if you are tired not of days but of me: tired of my words, tired of my arms, tired of the tribe from which my blood flows. My heart trembles with the thought, do you despise the very breath with which I call your name?

If death should come to me as swiftly as twilight, would it soothe you? Would the quiet of my absence give you the peace my living presence could not? To love you has been to walk a path of thorns barefoot, yet still I would choose it, still I would kneel before the altar of your indifference and offer the bruised fruit of my heart. For love, when true, does not measure return, nor count the wounds it gathers; it only asks to give, even unto its last breath. And if that breath comes today, then my only prayer is this, that somewhere in the hollow of your silence, you might whisper that I loved you, fiercely and without apology.

@okelododdychitchats

New, and New Again

There is a lantern burning in the darkened orchard, its flame steady though the winds conspire against it. So is my heart, unshaken by storm, for it has taken your name as its eternal wick. No night has been so deep that your light did not find me there.

There is a river that bends and bends again, yet never loses its way to the sea. My devotion follows. Each thought of you is a current, each dream of you is a tide, until all of me is poured into the great ocean of your being.

There is a star that stays when the dawn has claimed the sky, a lone sentinel of night’s mystery. That star is the memory of your eyes, refusing to fade though the day demands dominion. Even in the crowded brilliance of life, it is you I see, burning beyond the reach of time.

There is a music that no instrument can summon, yet I hear it whenever your spirit brushes mine. It is the song of beginnings, the hymn that shepherded the first lovers through gardens of wonder. It comes to me as though the world were created anew each moment I think of you.

There is a door that opens in silence, where absence becomes presence, and distance is folded into breath. Each time you cross my mind, you do not return as you were, but as something more, a revelation sharpened by longing, softened by tenderness.

There is a secret, older than scripture yet younger than every heartbeat: that to love is to discover eternity within the hour. I touch your soul not as one who has known, but as one astonished still, as though my lips had just now learned the miracle of your name.

There is, at last, this vow, not sculpted in stone, but written in the quickening blood of a heart undone. I will meet you again and again as though for the first time, a pilgrim at the gates of wonder. And when the world is ash and the sky a forgotten scroll, my love shall still be there, new, and new again.

@okelododdychitchats