Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Tags
#deadfriend
So i look in the mirror and wonder if this is the end. I think of my life, my family, and a dead friend. In my mind I see him smiling his face so bright. Him laying down his head gently, sleeping soundly every night. But alas he is gone never to return. His memories burned but not stored in any urn. I look in the same mirror as my eyes fill with tears. I think about my dreams, and my unnecessary fears. My dead friend had fears too, though much more logical than mine. Unlike me he wasn't scared all the time. He wasn't scared for his life, he didn't have to run. He joy was everlasting, trampled by none. But i wasn't jealous as i was happy too. We were always looking for a new adventure, thinking what to do. One last time i look in the mirror, and think of all he couldn't be. But then i remember, that dead friend, it's me.
0
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
gabriel-ackerman
A Dead Friend.
So i look in the mirror and wonder if this is the end. I think of my life, my family, and a dead friend. In my mind I see him smiling his face so bright. Him laying down his head gently, sleeping soundly every night. But alas he is gone never to return. His memories burned but not stored in any urn. I look in the same mirror as my eyes fill with tears. I think about my dreams, and my unnecessary fears. My dead friend had fears too, though much more logical than mine. Unlike me he wasn't scared all the time. He wasn't scared for his life, he didn't have to run. He joy was everlasting, trampled by none. But i wasn't jealous as i was happy too. We were always looking for a new adventure, thinking what to do. One last time i look in the mirror, and think of all he couldn't be. But then i remember, that dead friend, it's me.
Continue reading...
16
I left my phone in the fridge again. Texted my dead friend by mistake. The dream said turn left at the red door but every door was mauve and melting. I wore the wrong shoes to the right breakdown. God, I’m tired of being the lesson in someone else’s flashback. Of saying 'I’m fine' like it’s a good thing. Sometimes I bite a fingernail off and flick it to the ground, just to prove I was here, just to pretend my DNA is not a walking lie. Sometimes I talk to the dogs with TikTok accounts like they’re holding something back. Sometimes I rehearse my disappearances in liminal spaces: parking garages, abandoned malls, group chats I left on read. Now I RSVP to nothing and they still say “you’ll be missed.” I keep meaning to heal, but the plot keeps thickening— And my name— God, my name— it echoes like a spoiler in a house that isn’t mine anymore. A trivia fact no one got right. My memories keep getting auto-corrected to get over it. I don’t. I alphabetize the wreckage. I romanticize the ruin. The rot is getting readable. Anyway, I’m late again. Time got weird in the hallway. I swear the mirror was trying to warn me— but I was too busy checking if my under-eye bags made me look exquisitely exhausted, or just ordinary and old. I wanted to scream   but the hallway   was practicing silence.   I wanted to run,   but the rug said stay   and the mirror said   be still   and beautiful and unavailable. The mirror said: this is what longing looks like when it runs out of places to go. So I stood there— a half-wreck, half-reflection— trying to decide if disappearing quietly still counts as survival. Somewhere, my phone is defrosting. Somewhere, the red door is waiting. Somewhere, my dead friend is laughing his ghost-laugh, mouthing: same.
0
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 2:33 AM UTC
Kiernan515
Liminal Spaces Make Me Late
I left my phone in the fridge again. Texted my dead friend by mistake. The dream said turn left at the red door but every door was mauve and melting. I wore the wrong shoes to the right breakdown. God, I’m tired of being the lesson in someone else’s flashback. Of saying 'I’m fine' like it’s a good thing. Sometimes I bite a fingernail off and flick it to the ground, just to prove I was here, just to pretend my DNA is not a walking lie. Sometimes I talk to the dogs with TikTok accounts like they’re holding something back. Sometimes I rehearse my disappearances in liminal spaces: parking garages, abandoned malls, group chats I left on read. Now I RSVP to nothing and they still say “you’ll be missed.” I keep meaning to heal, but the plot keeps thickening— And my name— God, my name— it echoes like a spoiler in a house that isn’t mine anymore. A trivia fact no one got right. My memories keep getting auto-corrected to get over it. I don’t. I alphabetize the wreckage. I romanticize the ruin. The rot is getting readable. Anyway, I’m late again. Time got weird in the hallway. I swear the mirror was trying to warn me— but I was too busy checking if my under-eye bags made me look exquisitely exhausted, or just ordinary and old. I wanted to scream   but the hallway   was practicing silence.   I wanted to run,   but the rug said stay   and the mirror said   be still   and beautiful and unavailable. The mirror said: this is what longing looks like when it runs out of places to go. So I stood there— a half-wreck, half-reflection— trying to decide if disappearing quietly still counts as survival. Somewhere, my phone is defrosting. Somewhere, the red door is waiting. Somewhere, my dead friend is laughing his ghost-laugh, mouthing: same.
Continue reading...
75