Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
lua Aug 2023
one night, i counted the seconds
the ones i could hear from my broken wall-clock
each tick was one second, and i would tap my fingertips together to count
reaching to the hundreds

running to catch a moving train,
id lose my train of thought
and start again

each tick, every second
is the amount of time to dot a page with the tip of a pen
to stipple it with ellipses
for a quiet read

one night, i counted the silence
the ticking between the words
i counted the periods, the commas
every pause that collected thoughts
and i wondered with my jumbled mind
on what the amount of time in a person's life is spent on thinking before speaking
pondering on what to say
til the last second

i think it comes with the fear of stumbling over your words
to get tongue-tied and garbled
the fear of embarrassment as you pick your sentences up from the floor
not knowing what to use in an appropriate manner
yet time ticks by, each second dotting the space
as you race for a response against
looking like a fool and looking like a fool
one with words unsaid and one with the wrong thing spoken

one night, i counted the seconds
i counted the dots when i would type a reply
the three dots of contemplation
and the conversation ends.
B May 2021
I just need more.
I need one more night with you
because I miss the way you feel.
I miss the way your lips feel so right
The way you make me melt when you smile at me
The way I feel when you send me a message
The way it makes me smile when you think of me
The way it makes me feel when I think of you.
I didn't get enough, so I need more.
I need more butterflies when you accidentally touch my leg
or sit closer to me than I think you mean too
or laugh at my jokes
or whisper to me when our friends are yelling
or even when you look at me like I'm a camera on a tv show.
I can't believe that you make me feel this way.
And I can't believe it's gone.
I need more.
Can I have more?
Can we just have five more minutes?
Knut Kalmund Jul 2020
as of tonight I am one with the stars
a glass splinter of many
meticulously distributed by the hand
that shattered the shining jar

nourished by the garlic half moon
peeled it off and
cut it into shape
for my marginal nocturnal treat

im here to disappear
a repeating onetime chance
what’s between shall remain as
a clasping ray to heaven‘s gate
IncholPoem Jan 2019
My  old  girlfriend
of  computer
learning  centre
was  a  polythene
cover.

A  polythene  cover
were   giving
mental  torture.

It  was
behaving  like  that.

One  night  i
left  it
on  a  road  side
by  shocking  it.



She  and  that
could  have
been   gotten
new  partner.
Alaric Moras Mar 2017
I made you breakfast because
Last night, you called me ‘luv’
While laughing at the way I hung our clothes
(Still warm from us)
Behind my door.

It was the English in you, I admit,
But I was hoping that
If I left you something to remember
Like how I cared about
Even the fabric that caressed you before I did
Or how I like my breakfast
As I do my men,
English and in bed,
You would stick around
And say it again
Because the next time, it would be true.
Aaron LaLux Oct 2016
On a trip,
to Thailand,
from Egypt,
to an island,

had a layover in Dubai,
so I decided to visit a friend,
a beautiful traveler such as myself,
in Dubai the Hyatt was her residence,

I got off my flight,
and cleared customs,
took the Metro to Palm Deira,
then emerged into the thick Emirates air,

felt like I’d emerged into a tide pool,
the air was damp and salty,
as if I’d submerged my whole body,
into summer sun heated waters,

walked a long short walk to the hotel,
and entered the oversized lobby,
Dubai lives off of air conditioning,
and the climate control was welcoming,

my friend came down to meet me,
dressed as beautiful as ever,
a flight attendant she was very attentive,
we hugged and she invited me to the rooftop pool,

on the rooftop I changed into my swimming trunks,
because even though it was just I layover,
I bring my trunks with me everywhere,
because you never know when you’re gonna swim,

she stayed poolside,
gazed at me apparently amused,
after a quick dip I emerged refreshed,
toweled off and we talked,

she asked me why I write,
she asked me what my goal was,
I told her I didn’t know why I write,
or really what my goal was,

she pressed on,
and insisted there must be a reason,
so I answered her question,
with the following reasoning,

“I guess I write,
so that our collective humanity,
has some sort of documentation,
of our emotional history.
But I don’t have a goal,
and I am not flattered when people compliment my work,
because I don’t really consider my writings mine,
I consider them the world’s.
So when some says my writing saved their life,
I feel awkward because God wrote it not me,
still I say thank you because I don’t know what else to say.
The books I’ve written are bigger than me,
millions of people have read the poems I’ve penned,
but most people that that have read my poems,
wouldn’t recognize me on the street if they walked past me,
see it’s not me they know it’s the writing I’ve written,
which means readers think they know me,
but they don’t know me at all.”

There’s a moment of silence,
on that rooftop,
all the lights of Dubai,
reflecting in her dark molasses eyes,

and I ask this,

“Do you ever feel trapped?”

She seems a bit perplexed by the question.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,
here you are,
in The Emirates.
You are constantly on call for an airline,
you could be called to go any minute,
so you’re in a constant state of defense.
Plus,
this whether,
I mean,
it’s unbearably hot here,
and people here are completely dependent on A/C,
plus there are cameras everywhere always watching,
and to open almost any door here you need a key,

it seems there’s so much security that nothing and no one is free.”

“No I don’t feel trapped.”

Her answer comes too fast,
as if she doesn’t want to take the time to think about it,
and speaking of time,
my flight to Thailand is quickly approaching.

I change out of my shorts,
put my ‘normal’ clothes back on,
khaki shorts and navy shirt,
so that I can cruise through without being bothered,

but I am bothered,
because I can’t even touch her,
this is Dubai and despite the pretty lights,
this place is not Liberal it’s Conservative Islam,

and everything is forbidden.

We make our way across the rooftop poolside,
walking on plastic grass under canvas canopies,
we get to the outside door she slides her plastic key card,
and we enter back into the climate controlled insides,

we reach the elevator,
she taps her key card again,
the elevator opens,
and we start to descend,

inside the lift I can’t help myself,
she’s too attractive,
so I try to place a kiss on her shoulder,
she pulls away.

“Aaron no!”

“What?”

“We can’t,
not here,
I can get in trouble,
seriously.”

She nods discretely to the close captioned camera,
recording our every movement in the corner,
I guess the only thing we can exchange here is glances,
the system still hasn’t found a way to stop us from making eye contact,

and eye contact is the only contact we’re allowed to make,
everything else is forbidden,
heck they’d probably even outlaw looks if they could,
the elevator opens,

we’re back in the lobby,
she offers to walk me to the metro,
I obviously accept her offer,
I would accept any offer she ever gave me,

We emerge back into that thick Emirate air,
that damp and salty tide pool,
back into that traffic and incessant noise,
back into the smell of the fruits of the sea,

I ask her why it smells so much like fish out there,
she tells me there’s a fish market across the street,
she tells me the Pakistanis shove fish in her face during the say,
and have absolutely no respect for personal space.

we reach the doors of the metro station,
already we can feel the cool artificial A/C breeze,
and I’m again reminded how fake this city is,
fake people fake air fake grass fake plastic trees,

seems she’s the only thing real here,
and we are about to say goodbye,
we hug quickly before we depart,
don’t want to catch the attention of the camera’s eye,

she waives goodbye,
as I descend back down the escalator,
I want to tell her that I don’t like goodbye waives,
because that’s exactly what I saw before I lost my sister,

in other words the last time I ever saw my little sister,
was when she waived goodbye to me,
before she drowned in the fish pond,
actually that’s the only memory I have of my sister,

but that’s another story for another day,
that’s a different trip entirely,
that’s something that happened long ago,
something that now’s a distant memory,

anyways that’s why I wanted to tell the girl in Dubai,
“Please don’t waive goodbye,
because that makes me worried,
that we’ll never see each other again.”,

but it was too late,
the hands of time had already pushed us away,
the escalator was already creating too much space between us,
I guess I can hope that we’ll see each other again in another time and place,

but for now,

I’m on a trip,
to Thailand,
from Egypt,
to an Island,

and the planes coming,
and it’s almost time to board,
and you can’t go back to a passed moment,
because the only constant is change and the only direction is forward,

so be forewarned,
if you love someone tell them right then,
because even when things are just beginning,
everything and every one is only a moment from the very end…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
A lesson in Time and a Reminder to Love
rhema subedi Oct 2016
One stolen moment, to be treasured forever,
The first; the last: now and then never.
Tonight, two hands join together, into a little fist,
The memories of this moment, to fade away like mist.
But in my mind, this is a moment engraved in stone,
The memory of the night, you refused to leave me alone.
I hold your hand, like a child might,
While you look ready to take flight.
Fly you would; but never without me,
Being yours is the best I can hope to be.
Carolina Nov 2015
I want to call you mine,
at least just for one night.
Liam C Calhoun Nov 2015
“Tap,” beckoned the door,
A, “knock,”
And signature I’d never forget –
Cross the “t’s, “dot the “i’s,”
An empty night’s forged check
And liquor paved path to be,
To bed, it’s her, it’s her.

It’s also 3:10 AM,
Better than PM,
Where I’m still awake,
Still at work,
And as always,
Annoyed by the nuisance of
Another.

I don’t say “hi,”
And far from reluctantly,
She grabs a beer,
The only cold one I’ve got,
Frail fingered, cry-stain eyed,
And fresh off the ultimate high,
Love, and again.

She hovers to my room,
A natural,
Where she walks with closed lids
Guided by music that’s
Remnant and
Leaking phantoms
From speakers spiting souls –

And it’s
The song she always played,
And it’s, “ours,”
Once a favorite of mine,
And it’s now if only a melody,
Destroyed by repetition and her
Obsession with “echoes.”

I endure.
I've since moved; last I'd heard, she hadn't.
Next page