#emotionaldistance
I didn’t slam the door.
Didn’t make a sound.
I left the way snow falls,
soft enough
that no one notices
until everything is different.
The room was still warm
when I stepped out,
but the cold was already in me.
It had been there for a while,
growing in quiet corners,
freezing things I didn’t know how to fix.
You might say I disappeared.
That I drifted.
That I gave up.
But I didn’t leave all at once.
I left in pieces,
in the pauses between words,
in the silence after laughter,
in the moments that should have meant something
but didn’t anymore.
By the time I walked away,
there was nothing left to take.
Now it is quiet.
The kind of quiet that stretches.
The kind that doesn’t ask questions.
And if you look for me,
you won’t find footprints,
just a smooth layer of snow
where something used to be.
ĀŘÇ ❄️
Apr 23
Apr 23, 2026 at 8:59 AM UTC
In the golden zone,
where contained worlds
can flourish
It takes 8 minutes
for the sunlight
to reach the Earth.
However, it can be cruel
to those who have wandered
away from its nurturing core;
5.5 hours to reach Pluto.
Your orbit kept expanding
farthest away in my galaxy.
I wonder how long it takes
in your freezing world
for my light to reach
your hollow creeks
It will reach you, regardless
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 3:21 AM UTC
Broken strings, glass-tear eyes—
where’s that smile from a distance?
:been a bit distant—
clapped back at feelings; can you hear
the applause in the distance?
You are my world in a world full of sin—
seen as you are, sin as you are; I still let
you in; for better, no worse— your cold,
my warm…you don’t just feel—
you are my poem.
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 4:43 PM UTC
She learned early that silence
was the safest room in the house –
a place with no doors to slam,
no voices rising like weather.
So she built her life around disappearing.
Not dramatically, not with slammed phones
or final speeches,
but with the soft precision of a match
snuffed between fingers.
People called her calm.
They mistook her quiet for grace,
never noticing how she watched the floor
instead of their eyes,
how she measured every word
as if it might detonate.
When someone asked,
“Yuka, are you okay?”
she smiled the way a curtain smiles
when it hides a broken window.
And when they pressed –
when they reached for the truth
with hands too curious,
too kind —
she vanished.
Ghosting was not cruelty to her.
It was the only language
that never talked back.
A clean severance.
A door that closed itself.
But one day someone didn’t leave.
They waited in the quiet she’d made,
not accusing, not demanding,
just present —
a steady shape in the doorway
she thought she’d locked.
“Yuka,” they said,
not loudly,
but with the kind of voice
that knows what silence costs.
Something in her cracked –
not open,
but sideways,
like a fault line shifting underfoot.
She felt the old instinct rise:
run, vanish,
become the polite nothing
that keeps everyone safe.
But their stillness held her.
Not trapping —
witnessing.
And for the first time
she wondered what she was protecting:
the fragile peace of not being known,
or the deeper fear
that if she spoke,
her voice would betray her
by sounding real.
She didn’t confess.
She didn’t unravel.
She only said,
“I don’t know how to stay.”
It was small,
unfinished,
barely a sentence,
but it was the first thing
she hadn’t had to disappear to say.
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 9:39 AM UTC
I’m a __BBC__, when you hear
The breaking news: my heart
Is always set on constant __DND__
Wrestling feelings, and dropping
Them all with a __DDT__; spinning my
Old insecurities on constant repeat —
Like outdated __DVDs__
Rush hour in my head, my love
Is stuck in the __CBD__, and I only risk
It when I’m high enough not to bleed
But truth is, I love better on the low—
_Slow_, because love hits hard; a drug
And every high comes with a couple
Blows.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
My Dear,
I’m tongue-tied — I may not be able to say much. It’s been a long time since I looked into your eyes. In the rush of the day we never find a single quiet moment for ourselves.
If I speak, you’ll tell me you have no time for these childish whims. Fine — I’ll stop saying it. But if you ever feel like it, put out the dim light in your room and stare, blank-eyed, at the ceiling for a while. Maybe then you’ll feel what I feel; maybe you’ll see what’s inside me, and notice how wide the distance has grown.
What do you think? That I’m only being cryptic? You see nothing but darkness. There is no place left for jokes — my days and nights are full of nonsense.
Go ahead, add a couple more complaints to the list. Lately I’m beyond ordinary sorrow; call me an enlightened sage if that comforts you. I won’t tell another lie — I’ll try to speak only what’s true from my heart. No — I will tell you nothing but the truth. These sleepless nights have become unbearably irksome.
I’m tongue-tied; I won’t explain the reasons to anyone. You needn’t worry. Keep living your life as you do. I’ve learned a new craft: weaving stories — many lies, a little truth, and mostly imagination.
Enough of that. I’ve rambled so much I forgot the real thing I wanted to say: I miss your smile. I miss it a great deal. Without it, your face looks hollow and empty.
Always,
Someone
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 4:25 AM UTC
Not every people are your people —
but in that same breath, everybody needs you.
Going round the city, and round the clock,
where times are always hard, like the past
we keep wearing; all the ones we hang up.
As someone called me, and I answered
quickly, frequently, honestly; just to hang up.
_Funny how that’s what we do with people too._
Fingers of strangers scrubbing their own
dishes, while dishing out cold remarks —
serving my character as tonight’s leftover dinner.
And still, I stay on their minds without an address,
resting in dreams without a mattress; in the scripts
they write, I’m some recurring actor or actress —
But I don’t have the stamina to be running through
someone else’s head for free; dressing for their occasion
while my self-worth turns into something old fashioned.
And the idea of pushing a lawnmower over grass
that’s not mine, just to keep the image they clipped
of me, cut and well-trimmed - _cuts me short of worth_.
I’m always cut short for time, by that very blade.
Could it be a blade of grass or time itself?
Either way, it leaves another scent in the air —
the smell of success I’m still chasing.
Not every people are your people —
there are some paths, you won’t walk.
And some eyes, you won’t meet.
And some connections? You just hang up.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 2:45 AM UTC
__Untie me from your thoughts__ —
acting loose from your love;
not what I should’ve known.
Knot-tongued,
unable to say what I’m really feeling
inside the chambers of my heart.
Dumpling cheekbones
feeding off your smile —
_it's a soft scene_.
But all of our best actions
still aren’t worth a movie screen.
And aren’t we looking
a little too scripted
in front of our peers?
__You__ —
my original promissory note.
Please take note
of every step you take in my mind,
scribbling down your movements
like wandering footnotes.
________________________________________
There’s also the shaking __trial of courtship__ —
in the jaws of both judges.
You say what you want —
and it turns out to be
exactly what I don’t.
You try to live in my thoughts,
but I’m still __renting that house__.
No roots, no keys —
just memories on a month-to-month lease.
________________________________________
To say every man is just, "a dog" —
their barking mingles on,
chasing their own tails,
returning to the ones who wronged them
as if _they_ were wrong.
But the dog’s got a bone to pick,
and it contests every bone.
________________________________________
__Truth is__ —
this, like our love,
was never meant
to be a love poem.
Jul 2, 2025
Jul 2, 2025 at 4:40 AM UTC
I didn’t want to fall apart mid-sentence,
So I said less and asked more questions.
Tuned out love songs, skipped our street —
I made avoiding you look complete.
I smile and nod when your name is mentioned,
As if it doesn't pull me out of the conversation
They throw it around casually, like it's not cutting right through —
I guess I never got to cry about you.
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 3:15 PM UTC
Half of me and half of you, a point of divergence for you
Half of me and half of you, a point of amalgamation to me
Half of me and half of you, a false pretence to you
Half of me and half of you, a make-believe fairytale to me
Half of me and half of you, a hefty disdain to you
Half of me and half of you, a wishful radiance to me
Half of me and half of you, a lousy freebee to you
Half of me and half of you, a subtle rush to me
Half of me and half of you, a blatant lie for you
Half of me and half of you, a beautiful lie to me
-Asher Graves
Apr 11, 2025
Apr 11, 2025 at 10:14 PM UTC