“I Don’t Ask For Forever — I Just Ask For Real”

“I see the way you carry pain in your silence, and strength in your softness. You don’t need to be loud to be powerful. Your emotions are not ‘too much’ — they’re poetry in motion.” By----- Astrum

"I loved you past your skin" By Astrum

i didn’t fall for your body — i fell for the way your silence trembled when you trusted me to hear it. i loved you past your skin, past the curve of your lips and the softness of your breath. i loved the cracks in your voice when the world grew too heavy, the storms in your eyes when you were too tired to smile, and the ache in your soul that you tried so hard to hide. Don’t you see? i was not memorizing your body— i was memorizing the map of your hurt. because love, i did not come to touch you like a tourist touches a city— i came to live inside you, the way a poem lives in the chest long after the page is burned. You were not a body to me. you were a home i wanted to return to, over and over, even when the doors were locked. — and baby, i still have the keys.

I don’t want a home.

I want a heartbeat

that beats louder when it feels me near.

𝓕𝓸𝓻 𝓱𝓲𝓶 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘...

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 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 heart remembers what the mind tries to forget, especially in the quiet hours."

Astrum

lets bother mama