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  Feb 25 Carlo C Gomez
Vianne Lior
Bare feet kissing marble’s chill,
fingertips tracing teak and dusk,
air thick as mulled velvet—
honeyed, heavy, slow.

She moves where silence frays,
light spills like sugared wine,
breath lingers like an unshed sigh—
never still, never caught.

Fluorescence hiccups across her skin,
pavement inhales her weight,
a flicker, a glitch, a sliver of absence—
half-held, half-gone.

She dances where gravity forgets,
shadows soften like overripe fruit,
laughter drips slow as melting wax—
feral, fleeting, free.

She is not waiting to be found—
she is, and that is enough.

Once, life was happening
Now,
It just happens
“ To do a thing young is a shortcut to greatness. Everything you do right is evidence of your great potential, and all your mistakes are the mistakes of inexperience, which will be corrected, surely, by the passing of time. To write a poor sentence at the age of nineteen is expected (and quickly forgiven). To write a poor sentence at the age of forty-five—shouldn’t you know better by now?”

https://open.substack.com/pub/tolstoyan?utm_source=mentions

-/-/-

now of an age when the word
decrepit
takes on an ironical extra lively meaning,
and critique mine own progeny
(feet, fingers toes & nose)
thru a bitter screening of
et tu?

thru this wizened skepticism,
acting as a great filtration
filigree of straining,
so many newlywed issues
never see the light of night,
by early dawn’s demise,
they gone, discarded

<•>
do the thing
step into the crevice
neath the wrath of the
precipice

be great
by your own definition
start the ignition
and energize the engine
add oil & gas
the spark plugs of youth
will get you to the next
stop or testing station
potd. poetoftheway

to be young precipice
Whittling the point
paring it down
cutting the volume
honing the sound

Sharpening each line
words drop and fall
meaning to thunder
— lightning recalled

(Dreamsleep: February, 2025)
We built our friendship piece by piece,
with laughter and late-night talks,
but, I never thought we'd reach the day
when our shared path just...stopped.

I remember the good days and the bad,
a shoulder was always there to lean on,
I thought we'd be two crazy friends
growing up and still going strong.

I remember how we used to plan
our lives, growing old and grey.
It is funny how our future dreams
just sort of slipped away.

I've tried my best to fix the broken bits,
and to patch up what came undone,
but some things, once they've changed too much,
can't be joined back together as one.

And yes, it hurts like hell sometimes
to know we've drifted apart and stalled;
But, I wouldn't trade those memories,
not for anything at all.

So here's the truth, plain and simple,
as I let these words go free,
I hope you find what you've been chasing,
and that you are where you are meant to be.

I hope that your days are kind and gentle,
and that all of your dreams will come alive;
And although we're on different paths now,
I hope that you will still continue to thrive.

©️Lizzie Bevis
How bittersweet it is to drift away from old friends.
It will never be the same as it once was.
  Feb 25 Carlo C Gomez
Vianne Lior
Not the butterfly—
never the butterfly.

Only the delirium.
The fever of pursuit.
Wind-lashed laughter,
sun slitting gold across our skin,
hands slicing through hush,
through emerald ghosts.

Wings—silk, smoke,
breath—a ghost kiss,
vanishing.

We ran.
We ran.
Color hemorrhaged between our hands.
The sky swallowed it whole,
left nothing but,
the aftertaste of wanting.

Was it ever the capture?
Or the almost,
the ache of flight just out of reach—
like trying to pocket a mirage,
like teaching the wind to stay.

Years fold.
Silence swallows.
Love like wings,
dreams like dust,
fingers still cupped around air,
as if emptiness could be held.

We chase.
We lose.
We call it living.

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