I woke up
in the middle of the sentence
the one I never finished
about the cracked ceramic mug in the sink
and the way your voice echoed in the hallway
like a ghost rehearsing its apology
but forgetting the words.
I walked past the laundromat
the one with the flickering sign
that once spelled “LOVE”
when the “C” burned out.
I thought maybe that was a metaphor
but metaphors dress pain in velvet
and call it poetry.
I saw a man screaming at a pigeon
and thought, yes,
that’s me,
that’s all of us
screaming at something
that doesn’t blink
doesn’t write back.
I tried to write a letter
but the pen bled
and the paper curled
ashamed of what I remembered,
what I forgot,
what I invented
to survive.
I miss silence
before it became diagnosis,
before it hummed in my bones
like a refrigerator
in a house
no one lives in.
I kissed someone last week
and it felt like licking an envelope
sealing something
I didn’t want to send
but did
because I’m tired
of holding things
that don’t want to be held.
I keep dreaming of a train
that never stops.
Everyone I’ve loved is on it
but they don’t see me.
They’re laughing,
reading,
drinking coffee.
I’m standing
on the platform
with a ticket
that has no date.
I woke up again
in the middle of the sentence
and this time
I let it hang
like a coat on a hook
waiting
for someone
to come back
and wear it.
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 8:44 AM UTC
I woke up
in the middle of the sentence
the one I never finished
about the cracked ceramic mug in the sink
and the way your voice echoed in the hallway
like a ghost rehearsing its apology
but forgetting the words.
I walked past the laundromat
the one with the flickering sign
that once spelled “LOVE”
when the “C” burned out.
I thought maybe that was a metaphor
but metaphors dress pain in velvet
and call it poetry.
I saw a man screaming at a pigeon
and thought, yes,
that’s me,
that’s all of us
screaming at something
that doesn’t blink
doesn’t write back.
I tried to write a letter
but the pen bled
and the paper curled
ashamed of what I remembered,
what I forgot,
what I invented
to survive.
I miss silence
before it became diagnosis,
before it hummed in my bones
like a refrigerator
in a house
no one lives in.
I kissed someone last week
and it felt like licking an envelope
sealing something
I didn’t want to send
but did
because I’m tired
of holding things
that don’t want to be held.
I keep dreaming of a train
that never stops.
Everyone I’ve loved is on it
but they don’t see me.
They’re laughing,
reading,
drinking coffee.
I’m standing
on the platform
with a ticket
that has no date.
I woke up again
in the middle of the sentence
and this time
I let it hang
like a coat on a hook
waiting
for someone
to come back
and wear it.
