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Àŧùl Jul 23
Love is life.
Love is eternal.
Love is forever.

So what if the candidates of my love keep changing?
I am constant and truly love myself.

One day I shall be a little less lonely.
My HP Poem #1953
©Atul Kaushal
On my exploration, there are still secrets
that kept under my  sleeves; it would be a
twisted knife in my defenseless night.

Between the heaven and sea,
there are traces of him, keeping me
haunted and wandering at it.

Between the orbs and galaxies,
we're building towers,

we're praying and pleading for a myriad miracles,
I nestled gently on his lips,
it was all downhill.
I see faces and flowers
on loose pages—
it smiles at me from
a crumpled paper, addressed
to the fire, its embers were
keeping it ablaze.

How happy it was to paint the
room blue in the middle of summer,
dancing through the sound of the creaks
under my footsteps— everything is just right.

How treacherous it was, a wistful memory
they were remnants of unsettled stories
and unforgiven departures; I stood
on a shipwreck
where everything is a lost.
the uncertainty would be tall
and I am more will for the fall,
are these things crosses your mind?
I wouldn't bear crossing out your name.

This is how we paint room blue; creeping
on the cracks of the floor, memorizing your
gaits as I follow your traces.
i decided to re-write this one. it was published four years ago, and time really changes my perception to this.
Diana May 2020
A memory abound in the people here
Leaving behind a trace of their fears
Don’t mark me if you plan to leave too soon
And see me only when my plants are in bloom
A thousand beings, in my life
Staining me with tears and strife
Don’t take a main part of my home
If soon you’ll go back to roam

— OrcasTogether
دema flutter Aug 2019
happy news penetrate
through my fading
soul like a wave
washing the
traces off
Timothy Oct 2018
Mis dedos y nariz rozan tu almohada.
Tu ausencia pesa una tonelada,
y tus huellas que huelen a rosas
evocan las cosas perdidas
que se convirtieron en mis heridas.

(My fingers and nose caress your pillow.
Your absence weighs a tonne,
and the traces of you that smell like roses
evoke the lost things
transformed into my wounds.)
Link to short film:
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