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Lalit Kumar Jul 8
I sometimes wonder if boys who wear specs feel love a little differently Not because they see less clearly, but because someone somewhere once helped them choose how they'd be seen It's a quiet sort of intimacy when she scrolls through your indecision, pauses, and says "this one suits you." And somehow in that moment it’s not just about specs. It’s about being understood gently and still accepted

Maybe it’s absurd to romanticize frame choices, but love has always lived in absurdities. In screenshots of shortlisted pairs. In a voice that says, "trust me on this one," and you do not just with glasses, but with things far deeper She doesn’t touch you, not really But she leaves traces in the shape of your reflection, in the way you begin to carry yourself, unknowingly echoing her taste

And even if she’s not yours, even if nothing’s ever said or claimed, there's something sacred about wearing what she picked. It’s a closeness unmeasured, a kind of nearness no label can hold. You walk into the world every day with something she once chose sitting quietly on your face. And maybe that's enough sometimes love is just the privilege of being seen before you've even figured out how to see yourself

And funny thing is, no one notices.

No one sees how you pause a second longer at the mirror not out of vanity, but memory. No one hears the silence you carry in your chest when you put those specs on, like you’re slipping into a version of yourself curated by someone else’s kindness. Someone who saw you not as you were, but as you could be.

There’s a kind of longing in that a longing without ache, without urgency. Just presence. A quiet respect for what was never yours to keep but always yours to carry.

And sometimes, I catch myself wondering—when she sees someone else now, does she ever recall that call, that chat, that frame? Does she ever think, “He really did choose what I picked”? Or was I just a passing moment in her day, while she became a permanent corner in mine?

But I never asked. That’s the thing about this kind of love it doesn’t need closure It’s made of choices, not conclusions. And that’s what makes it last longer than most.
Sara Barrett Jan 21
We are galaxies wrapped in human skin,  

Infinite and diverse

Short, tall, curved, angular,  

Painted in every shade beneath the sun.  

We carry stories like hidden constellations,  

Symphonies unheard by casual ears.  

Mothers, creators, dreamers, doers

More than the roles they give us.  

Some wear scrubs that heal,  

Some don suits that lead,  

Some wrap aprons around quiet dreams   

But always, there is more beneath the surface.  

We are silent strategists,  

Mapping emotions with a glance,  

Untangling life’s knots with quiet magic.  

We repair not only what has been broken.

We restore what is unseen.  

We write novels at midnight,  

Teach yoga or calculus with equal grace.  

We climb walls others fear facing,  

And drive highways under moonlit skies.  

They see simplicity where we hold storms,  

Calm exteriors hiding infinite layers.  

Mother. Worker. Wife.  

Labels are too small for the worlds we contain.  

Stop. Look closer. Listen deeply.  

We are not just women

We are universes waiting to be discovered,  

Galaxies hidden in plain sight,  

Architects of futures yet unwritten.
This poem explores the hidden depths of women’s lives—their untold stories, unseen challenges, and unrecognized strengths. It reflects on how women are often defined by surface-level roles—mother, professional, wife—that fail to capture the vastness of who they truly are. Beneath their calm exteriors lie galaxies of talents, passions, and resilience, quietly shaping the world in ways that often go unnoticed. This piece is a call to look beyond appearances, to listen deeply, and to acknowledge the infinite complexity and quiet power that women carry within them.
Monica Mourad Aug 2019
Four walls …two bodies
Trapped words ...white noise.
A house on fire...
You... me … standing burning
Pretending the fire isn't roaring.
m X c May 2019
gabing hindi mapakali,
gustong humagolgol, ngunit walang luhang pumapatak,
sikip ng dibdib ay hindi maintindihan,
ilang kilometro na ang takbo ng isip,
ngunit ikaw lamang ang iniisip,
Papalayain na ba ang sarili?
o hahayaan nalang na magkusang mawala,
dahil nagmimistulang bangkay na at hindi na maramdaman ang muling umibig.
ang makita kang masaya na, ay akin ding kasiyahan,
mga katanungan ko'y hangang tanong nalang.
sinusubukang ngumiti tumawa ngunit, aking lamang pinaglalaruan ang aking sarili, dahil sa halip tuwa at saya ang aking maramdaman ay parang normal lang.
PAPALAYAIN NA AKING SARILI,
sa nakaraan nating ako lang ang nakakalam, na parang ako lang ang nakakaalala.
ito na nakakaramdam na pala ako ulit.
SAKIT pala ang aking nararamdaman, na ako'y napag iwanan na, na ako nalang ang nabubuhay sating nakaraan. TAKOT, na ako'y tuluyan mo na palang nakalimutan, TUWA na ikaw ay masayang masaya na, ngunit sana ang mga tanong gustong itanong saiyo, matuldukan na, pangamba ko lang ay hindi nanaman ito sagutin. pangamba ko din ay baka hindi mo na ako ituring na kahit parang kapatid lang, yon ay aking tanging hiling.
ngayon ay siguro panahon na para,
Palayain na aking SARILI,
ngayon luha na ngay bumuhos sa umagang gansa ng sikat ng araw,
at ngayon sa huling pagkakataon ipapadama sayo,
K. ikaw lang, mahal kita, minahal kita, at kung baliktarin man ang mundo at kung saan pwede na ang TAYO, K. mamahalain parin kita.
mahirap man sakin ngunit siguro ngay ito rin ang iyong inaantay ang,
Palayain na aking SARILI.
there's always someone who will never be YOURS, iloveyou more than anyone knows.
thanks, and i will always be your MACy.
Diary of Jane Jul 2018
A thousand different scenarios
I build in my head,
laying awake at night,
watching the forlorn sky
and try to conjure up
the reaction you give me
as it finally dawns you.

But the scenarios dissolve
as reality crashes
and it settles in my stomach
like a ton of bricks
that you will always remain oblivious
to what you mean to me.
Ethiiochick Jun 2016
Those hands show the many years of continuous hardship, but with the beautiful struggle and time all is subdued.
This enduring hands tells story's that her mouth couldn't dear to utter, strong, brave was she for silently withstanding the ever tiring battles of life.
These hands are not mine, but they still need the same comforts and care that my own crave for.
Listen to the hands echoes, let them ring loudly into your ears, while her words can be seen through her delicate hands, she still remains quiet as the graves that she finds homely...
-Ethiiochick
Gul e Dawoodi Jun 2015
Sometimes, life is all about regrets
Regrets about the hearts we break
Regrets about the risks we take
Regrets about the friends we make
Regrets about the words we say
Regrets about the path we choose
Regrets about the things we lose
Regrets about the secrets we share
Regrets about the secrets we hear
Regrets about the promises we make
Regrets about the decision we take
Yet,
no  regrets
Is all we say.

— The End —