Let me introduce them

HE is the POET, and
They are the one

One and only.
Genre: Love
Theme: Bond
Chloe 19h
He's got freckles, little orange spots adorning him like stars in the sky.
He's got gorgeous eyes, grey, brown, green. I get lost in them, look in them so long that I see my reflection.
He's got smooth skin, and soft lips, and floppy hair that's always too long.
He'll poke fun at me, and I'll say 'shut up' with a grin on my face.
I'll poke fun at him, and he'll gasp and clutch his chest in mock offense, before he cracks himself up.
He's got an amazing smile, an adorable laugh.

He says he doesn't talk much, but he talks to me for hours.
He deals with a lot of hurt, but he never dismisses mine.
He seems like a badass, but is the biggest sweetheart in the world.

He loves the sea, those sparkling blue waves, and I love the sky, with its twinkling stars and glowing moon.
Like the sea and the sky, we're two very different things, but we meet at the horizon, and that line is where we are home.
It began with me and a fence.

I stood near seminary,
with thoughts more important
than any I've ever had inside.

It seemed at that moment,
that the fence was the only thing between me
and everything.
It seemed that if I didn't cross to the other side,
I'd be doomed to a life of normalcy.

I stayed, obviously.
I can't just get up and leave.

It was your response that made me
realize what I'd leave behind.

You didn't tell me to stay,
you responded one word, remember?
You said "someday."
Seanathon Apr 13
Prop upon an elbow
Look beyond a lens
Stare into the memories to be
And pray
Whispering quietly
That soon it will be so
And that it never has to end
True story.
She? She was always there. She may not have loved the way he treated her, but she stayed because she loved him.
He? He loved her too. No doubt. He may also had troubles with some attitudes. But at the end of the day, love was always
s t r o n g e r.

Still, both of them deserved better.
Stuck on a relationship with no passion.
Love still present but never shown again.
She was next to him through everything, until them both decided it was enough.
A I R.

They took different ways to breath.
She was not able to support the two kids.
He was not able to let them go.

She? tried to keep going.
He? couldn't.

Illness knocked at his door late at night. Rushing to the hospital because something wasn't alright.
The next day, early in the morning, when he woke up, next to him was her, holding his hand.
Years went by, married they ended up. Things looked fine outside, but the family was slowly falling
a p a r t.

Two more years they spend together, in peace until the hospital he had to visit again.
Once again, when he woke up she was there right by his side.
Little months went by then, until she stepped into the operations room. A routine procedure, nothing big. Just something to make life easier for her.

She? just needed help.
He? apparently didn't care.

In opposition to the way she was, he was never there by her side. Eventually things got bad, he was mad because she kept getting up. With a few screams and a few tears, he stopped talking to her until who knows when.

Tired of their bullshit one daughter stepped in, taking care of her mother and all her needs.

Tired of their bullshit and with no one to talk to, one daughter took her phone and into Hello Poetry logged in.
Yusof Asnan Apr 3
He loved her whole,
He loved her fully.
All her broken pieces,
He mend her soul.
But of a different form.
He changed her;
To what he wants.

Yusof Asnan Apr 3
For every time he gave up,
That was his cry for help.

Ken Rafiñan Mar 31
At times,
she was merely a whisper,
but at others—
the idea of her was a roar:
some sort of rampage that
ran and ravaged
men’s minds
leaving a moisty mess in its pasts.

It is a waltz written
for two,
by two,
but witnessed by legion.

Entire skinscapes under the wretched eye of the voyeur;
from public to private: a steady state of impassivity:
institutional lies lay out a constitution
for the politics of representation.

Moments made to mutually respect the most human enterprise: self-interest.

Spaces of our socialization constructed in intimate corners
that capture
explicit scents
of the implicit sense.

Discourse engaging in an interruptive objectivity.

Questions of the
whos, whats,
where, and whens
curl up eventually in conversational cul-de-sacs.

When truth is a transaction
the historicity of our
chemical desires and cultural anxieties
are the outcome of an interrogative ideology.

Reality’s tentativity
creeps up on all of us
cruising towards a blissful relativity.

In the absence of a defining aesthetic
the conversation
peters off
and teeters
onto: awkwardness.

Soon the night ends, and she and I are left staring alternately at each other and occupied space, picking at the crusty traces left behind by exes asking the empty airs of bad religions the whys and hows of this petty predicament.

No answers are heard—of course.

The digital silence of a lack thereof has us waxing sentimental and raging hormonal for the warmth of analog love.

And to that we raise empty palms waiting to be filled once more with the glorious light of even emptier promises.
vanda czene Mar 24
A feeling so intense and old
About the way you hold
His sleeping body

Arms wrapped around
To keep him warm,
To say you’re his home

Just sleep my honey
I communicate non verbally
And he seems to listen
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