MY RED FLAG?

MY RED FLAG?

My red flag?

It’s embroidered with sonnets,

stitched from the torn pages of my delusions,

lifting gently in the wind

above the ruins of what logic tried to save.

I am a hopeless romantic—

not the loud kind,

but the kind who listens for the future

as it whispers behind her thoughts,

convinced that love, like prophecy,

arrives only when the air is ready.

I write foolish little verses,

ink-stained and sincere,

believing that if I choose the right words,

the universe will pause, exhale,

and quietly rearrange itself.

Not dramatically—

just enough to say,

Here. This is for you.

I do not flirt.

I do not date.

I do not gamble my heart

in the noise of small talk

or the static of modern romance.

I refuse the algorithm,

the swipes that pretend fate can be filtered,

as if a soulmate could be dismissed

by the tilt of a thumb.

I want to skip the rehearsals of love—

the cautious steps,

the measured vulnerability,

the let’s see where this goes.

I want to wake already known,

already held in understanding,

already laughing

in the middle of something that feels like home.

I imagine someone finding me—

not searching, not chasing—

just arriving,

as if the wind carried them here,

reading my ridiculous verses and smiling:

Ah. Yes. This is the kind of beautiful mess

I could grow old with.

I want to be known without explanation,

cherished without performance,

adored without effort.

And so I wait—

not idle, but listening—

pouring hope into metaphors,

trusting time to do what impatience cannot.

Because I know this now:

love does not shout.

It does not descend in flames

or knock like a hero at the door.

It arrives quietly,

when laughter has already learned

how to live inside you.

Maybe time will show me the way.

Maybe the future is gentle on purpose.

And maybe—

while I’m writing,

while the wind carries my hope forward—