Will You Be My Purple? — A Poem Wrapped In Ache, Softness, and Unspoken Devotion

 Will You Be My Purple?

— A Love Poem of Depth, Devotion, and the Quiet Between Colors

Will you be my purple?
Not red, the way anger stains the air,
Nor blue, like the silence after goodbye,
But that tender middle ground—
Where the burning and the breaking become one,
And the sky exhales a softer kind of ache.

Will you be the in-between?
The hush between thunder and rainfall,
The breath before I say I love you,
The space between reaching and retreating,
Where love doesn’t scream,
But stays.

Will you be the dusk in my chaos?
The moment when the sun gives in,
Not in defeat,
But in grace—
Letting go, gently,
Only to let another light rise on the other side.

You see, purple is not a color, my love.
It’s a feeling.
It’s every time I miss you
And still believe you’ll find your way back.
It’s every word I never said
Because I felt you’d understand without them.

Purple is holding hands in silence,
It’s your name caught in my throat
When I’m too proud to cry,
And too broken not to.

Will you be the bruise I wear with pride?
The reminder that I once loved deeply,
Fearlessly, even if it hurt.
Even if I bled in the process.

Because purple is born from pain—
Red blood and blue tears.
Yet somehow it’s the most royal of all,
The color of depth, of soul,
Of those who love with their entire being.

Will you be my contradiction?
My storm and my calm,
My chaos and my compass.
The ache I choose,
The wound I kiss,
The longing I turn into poetry.

Will you be the color I see
When I close my eyes and think of home?
Not a place.
Not a time.
But a person. You.

Because if you’re my purple,
Then I’ll be your sky—
Fading, rising, breaking, blooming—
Just to hold you.

So tell me, love,
Will you be my purple?
Not perfect.
Not promised.
Just true.

A Soul’s Homecoming: A Poem of Healing, Truth, and Self-Return

 “I Call Myself Home”

A sacred invocation to my higher self, from the soul of Bandana

I come barefoot.
Not out of poverty,
but out of reverence—
with the dust of ancient lifetimes still clinging to my soles,
with questions that taste of fire and salt.

I have wandered.
Through forests of silence,
through storms that wore my name,
through cities of forgetting,
through the shattered glass of love lost too soon.

And now—
I come, not to ask permission,
but to remember.
To remember what the world tried to make me forget:
That I am not just this flesh.
I am not just this ache.
I am the breath between lightning and thunder.
I am the echo of divinity wrapped in skin.

Higher self—
Can you hear me now?
Do you still walk beside me
when I abandon my own reflection?

I seek you—not in temples,
not in texts,
but in the moments just before sleep,
in the places where my tears go when I won’t let them fall,
in the space between inhale and surrender.

I seek truth.
Not the kind written in ink,
but the kind etched in scars.
The truth that doesn’t flinch
when the world is on fire.
The truth that stays.

I seek love.
Not the fleeting rush of need,
but the kind that sits with me in silence,
holds my trembling,
doesn’t try to fix it—just sees it.
The love that says:
“You are enough.
Even now. Especially now.”

I seek protection—
not from pain,
but from forgetfulness.
From the forgetting of who I am
when I am too tired to fight.
From the forgetting that I was never made to shrink.
That I am allowed to take up space.
That I am sacred. Even in ruins.

I seek forgiveness—
not from others first,
but from myself.
For every time I silenced my truth
to make someone else comfortable.
For every time I betrayed my soul’s voice
just to feel held.

To the versions of me I left behind—
in bathrooms, in battles,
in late-night texts and early morning regrets—
I say now, with a bowed head and open hands:
I see you. I’m sorry. I love you. Come back home.

I seek knowledge.
Not as a weapon—
but as a bridge.
As a lamp in the cave.
I want the kind of knowing that liberates,
not cages.
The kind that comes from stillness,
from asking,
from falling and rising again with eyes wider.

And I give love.
Yes—
To the world, to others, to strangers.
But first, to me.
To the child within who still waits to be chosen.
To the body that has carried my storms.
To the breath that keeps returning—even when I don’t.

I open my palms and say:
Take this love.
Let it become rain.
Let it become song.
Let it become nourishment
for anyone who’s ever felt forgotten.

I become a vessel of abundance—
not through taking,
but by emptying.
By becoming so honest,
so raw,
that the universe has no choice
but to fill me with everything that echoes truth.

I know now—
home is not a place.
Not a person.
Not a finish line.
Home is a becoming.
Home is the moment I stop running from myself
and begin listening
to the quiet voice that has always known the way.

And that voice whispers now,
with a love that breaks and heals me all at once:

“You were never lost, my beloved.
You were only learning
how to return to yourself.”

So I rise—
not as someone new,
but as someone true.
As the living poem
the stars once dreamed
into your name.

I am Bandana.
I am sacred.
I am whole.
I am home.