i came across this post today—
it asked me if i wondered
what would be the best place to leave my heart—
even if it's bits and pieces, like shells in the sand.

made a list for my own peace,
but here to share it, if you seek to leave a piece
of your own:

the sea, people claim, carries the tranquil
and provides the cool;

the empty temples and churches,
where your heart prays and reluctantly admits;

graveyards at night,
protected by those who left their own behind.

libraries and dusty old bookstores,
in between the pages and caskets of the used shores.

sun-dappled shades of yellow, green, and orange—
once settled, the purples and pinks of the similar hues.

gardens of thorns and flowers,
the sleeves of your last lover;
knots of the willow trees,
in winter blues and heated blooms,
risky texts during the night,
with strangers i met online,
in midst of late monsoon showers,
not to miss out the midnight hours.

a few bits i leave
in the misty mornings of the early summer,
the drenched evenings of the spring shimmer.

the company of my closest companions—
in the fur of a cat,
the nip of a bunny,
the smile of a pup,
sometimes in a sunset,
in the lush green of the forests,
often in the foil of the autumn trees.

mostly on my bed,
in my tear-filled, forsaken pillow,
and against the one i sleep so dearly.
plushies and teddies,
keepsakes of childhood memories.

with all those i've met so far,
and cookie crumbles at the footstep of my life—
for those who are welcome
and those who are not.

i have left, and leave, a lot more pieces.
i wonder if my heart is a cake-a-piece.

1st gust
drowning puddles with chimes
underneath
the hem of a guava tree
when i am robbed
of choruses
sung by the rain

with the coast
comes warm white sands
but never the taste
of salt on the ground
packed in like
grandma’s sweaters
permeates the smell of
freshly cut skin

i am fond
of bruising peaches;
no longer as
youthful as they
used to be.
expired hearts;
they are only fresh
for a week

how do i keep warm
the memory of you?
do i stash it away
in the arms of a girl
ready to be birthed
into a world
too desolate for its own

i watched the hope
crumble before my eyes
a stale concrete prison
i pushed my way out
just to see you
being burned alive
and i could not
weep, nor
could i cry

left me
to die in a moat;
acrylic coffin
meant to be
a gift for someone
happier than me
and watch my
expiration date
at my end, join me

you watched my
petals wither away
robbing me of
that which
i first loved
because i missed
you

i wish
i could
keep you
warm

I miss the euphony of birds at dusk’s soft kiss,
Their songs once crowned the Sun in fleeting bliss.
  Memory stirs — a street scene veiled in light,
  A bygone day reborn in twilight’s bite.

The winding road concluded at the tree’s embrace,
Where stood the Red Box, keeper of time’s trace.
  Forged by decree, a carmine sentinel still,
  Now fallen silent on the village hill.

In boyhood’s wanderings down that humble street,
I’d pause and wonder what secrets it might keep.
  I’d peer within when the Postman came to claim —
  Envelopes slipped like whispers with no name.

At dusk, that vision pierced me with its pain —
A relic ruined by wind and rust and rain.
  Creepers wound their wreaths around its frame,
  While lizards skittered, flies laid siege in vain.

One day, they’ll mark it — a relic of our place,
A story sealed in rust and creeping lace.
  Yet when I think of that red box grown old,
  A boy’s soft longing in my chest takes hold.

Time races on — we too shall find release,
And wish that Red Box might just rust in peace.

I tried hard
not to hear forced
gasps and stop-start
slaps of feet on floorboards
upstairs.

I just sat
stirring Shreddies
beneath the milk
like submarines.

        ‘The hits keep coming’,
the man on the radio said,
as if he knew.
And a neighbour took me to school again.

I don’t know why the ambulance came,
details forever submerged in waters
deep and murky.
At least he was gone for a while.

Love is a flame,
a memory of orange
flickering behind the ribs,
a match I didn’t know I struck
just by saying his name.

Not a wildfire.
It’s quieter than that.
A pilot light
that keeps burning
even when no one’s home.

Sometimes I hate it for that.
Its persistence.
Its patience.
It’s refusal to let me go cold.

Because I tried.
To blow it out.
To bury it beneath logic
and long explanations
and “maybe he didn’t mean to.”

But there it is,
in the way I still pause
at doorways,
hoping someone
will see me hesitate
and stay.

We were young, and the lights were out,
Spinning rooms and turning heads.
The last great generation—blooded hearts,
Passions born not of screen, but skin.
We longed, we loved, we lived—
Lifted to the highest plane,
With music and flesh as our true witness.
Those times were more than murmured whispers—
We were real, we were true,
Visceral tombs to the last great time for all.

Tom LeFort 2025

I don't remember the moment that we met...
It was the year of that breath of freedom but
we're both aware of the story that ensued:
the dreaded lockdown that sent us to despair.
But it was over the phone that we would still
speak on together and on and on we went.
Three 'ours; these hours would pass through time until
the norm remembered by us had now been bent
and twisted into something tot'lly new:
a calming thing.
A strange yet charming thing that broke the norm we grew to be accustomed to.
And though, in lieu of all I thought I knew,
I come to think
of how this change so scared me that I threw it all away, and hence lost you.

I still remember the moment when it would come to end...
I wonder now what had God left me to be.

It didn't matter,
for he could smell the sea
and thought it just enough
to season the past,
the remembrance,
slowly curling
in the flames at his feet.