So close
I can hear
your heartbeat—
yet far enough
that my hands
close on air.
You move through me
like blood,
like breath,
nearer than touch,
farther than mercy.
5h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 3:49 PM UTC
I remember you in quiet rooms,
where absence keeps your shape;
in songs that reach the edge of day
then fade before they stay.
The wind still carries your voice;
rain remembers your laughter.
Through the slow turn of seasons,
I almost feel you near—
not as memory alone,
but as light held briefly
before it fades.
The stars keep their quiet watch,
steady and sure;
beneath their silver burning,
your name returns
like warmth
I had not asked for,
and could not keep.
14h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 7:37 AM UTC
There are places grief inhabits slowly,
after the flowers wilt beside the wall,
after the voices take their warmth away,
and silence lowers softly over all.
One chair stands drawn back beside the table,
as though someone were coming home by dawn.
The cup sits cold where hands once set it down,
the folded cloth lies still beside the plate;
a lamp burns low along the darkened hall,
while shadows gather where the steps once fell.
The smallest sound seemed foreign in that room;
no prayer could fill the doorway’s patient frame.
There comes the hour when absence takes its seat,
and every breath remembers who is gone;
one hand lies open where another was,
they face the dark with half a living heart.
The years once carried between two lives
now settle in one hand through the night.
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 5:53 PM UTC
Is our love a fragile flame,
made only for the dark—
or rebellion wrapped in silk,
two wild hearts leaving marks?
Tell me—
is it sin
to feel this much,
to burn so near
the edge of touch?
If walls divide
and names condemn,
why does your pulse
still answer mine
again?
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 7:44 AM UTC
Like a candle once bright,
its wax pooled at the base,
the flame leans low,
then gives itself to night.
So love, left silent,
keeps the shape of warmth
long after light is gone—
a room grown cold
around what used to burn.
What once was sweet
grew hard upon the tongue;
promises thinned
to words no longer kept.
What remained
was not silence,
but the weight of it:
two chairs
facing one another,
and nothing crossing
the room.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 1:00 PM UTC
Across the darkened water burned the lights
of one old harbor, seasons long ago;
the island slept beneath a silver moon,
while tides pulled me where I could not go.
I once mistook the calm for something soft—
a lantern trembling on a quiet bay;
but stone remembers every winter sea
that broke against it, then drew away.
The harbor held because it had been struck;
storm-taught, its walls sheltered calm.
I watched until its lamps were lost from sight.
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 10:03 AM UTC
There comes a point when silence turns to stone,
When love grows heavy carrying the lie;
I watched the person standing there unchanged,
And knew at last what mercy must deny.
The photograph revealed what words concealed.
My hands went still before I understood.
Your face remained familiar in the light,
Yet nothing in that moment felt the same.
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 11:18 AM UTC
Two hands:
one holding flame, one holding ash;
one holding grief, one holding mercy;
one holding the wound, one holding the balm.
The world kept asking me to choose—
flame or shadow,
silence or song,
the wound or the healing.
Life kept offering one hand or the other,
as though the heart were made for lesser choices.
But mercy came quietly,
placing fire in one palm
and shadow in the other,
teaching me at last
that some truths
are carried together.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 8:23 AM UTC
The old violin held fast within its case,
Worn by the years, yet every string in place.
Crafted with skill and shaped by steady hand,
Its varnish faded thin by touch and time;
It holds the memory of notes once played,
Sweet echoes lingering softly in the grain.
The strings lay dull from long-forgotten years,
The bow hair thinned and frayed by age and use;
Yet careful hands still understood its worth,
And drew it gently from its resting place.
He turned the pegs with slow and patient care,
Brushed dust away that years had settled deep;
Old wood awakened underneath his touch,
As trembling notes rose softly from their sleep.
May 25
May 25, 2026 at 8:38 AM UTC
ubtle tense adjustment integrated:
I stepped onto the bridge with careless stride,
Each plank beneath my feet felt firm and true,
The distant shore called out across the wide
Expanse of years stretched farther than I knew.
The sun shone bright on those first eager steps,
Each day a new adventure, fresh and clear,
No thought of storms that strain these planks with force,
Or winds that could make even firm boards veer.
But seasons changed, and clouds began to form,
The planks beneath grew weathered, worn by days,
What once seemed straight now shifts through the hands of time,
Each step required a more careful measure.
At last the bridge’s highest point was reached,
Where weathered planks stretched level with the sky,
Through gaps that youth had never thought to see,
A flash of light from waters rushing by.
Behind, the miles stretched farther than I’d known,
Each early step now small against the span,
Ahead, the bridge curved down through light half-grown,
Where shadows gathered at the bridge’s end.
May 23
May 23, 2026 at 10:18 AM UTC