#timedifference - Hello Poetry

I wrote a letter to an old poet. The paper: stained, the pen: dry. Then “Time stopped,” as the poet would say, and often I find myself convinced by the claim. I stare at the parchment, at a loss for what to write— letters jumbled into half-made sentences, with words that have no provenance. It was moonlight when I started. Now it’s day, and I stare out the window. I realize now—it was love we shared. But the poet I knew is long gone. His voice: an echo in my mind. His poems—nothing but a mere song of his thoughts. Words that then were just momentary. I recall him sitting in this very place, writing until his pen spilled ink all over the desk. My gaze lingers on the stains that remain— even the table can’t forget his trace. I try to find it in myself to forget him, to forgive him for tangling me in his mess. To dust off the remains of his presence. I find myself staring at the parchment once more, and for the first time, I realize he had cursed me— leaving me with his poetry behind. Now all I write is but a shadow of him, his voice stuck in the back of my mind. And perhaps that was the cruelest thing he had done: leaving me to bleed on parchment, to be a mere trace—to fade.

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May 22, 2025

May 22, 2025 at 8:25 PM UTC

Moonlitsolance

Wrote a letter to an old poet

I wrote a letter to an old poet. The paper: stained, the pen: dry. Then “Time stopped,” as the poet would say, and often I find myself convinced by the claim. I stare at the parchment, at a loss for what to write— letters jumbled into half-made sentences, with words that have no provenance. It was moonlight when I started. Now it’s day, and I stare out the window. I realize now—it was love we shared. But the poet I knew is long gone. His voice: an echo in my mind. His poems—nothing but a mere song of his thoughts. Words that then were just momentary. I recall him sitting in this very place, writing until his pen spilled ink all over the desk. My gaze lingers on the stains that remain— even the table can’t forget his trace. I try to find it in myself to forget him, to forgive him for tangling me in his mess. To dust off the remains of his presence. I find myself staring at the parchment once more, and for the first time, I realize he had cursed me— leaving me with his poetry behind. Now all I write is but a shadow of him, his voice stuck in the back of my mind. And perhaps that was the cruelest thing he had done: leaving me to bleed on parchment, to be a mere trace—to fade.

37

Here I go again; putting you to the forefront of my mind. pushing these words back and back, endlessly ...simply because you opened your eyes. is beauty more important than art?

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Nov 25, 2018

Nov 25, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC

despairagus

Ping

Here I go again; putting you to the forefront of my mind. pushing these words back and back, endlessly ...simply because you opened your eyes. is beauty more important than art?

5

When you know you've lived the exact present you're living now before, doesn't it make sense to think of it as though... there is another part of you in another universe, going through the same thing? I believe in the multiverse theory, for I cannot prove that we are not alone. I believe there is a reason why I feel the skies talk to me every night. I believe someone's message is reaching me through the beams of the moon every night. My skin seeps it in like a flower knows to bloom. Ever think of a time difference between one universe and the other? What if we are born here on Earth and after we die, our soul travels to another universe and relives the same story? What if... we are a horcrux of our own soul which is split up and placed in different universes?

0

Nov 19, 2016

Nov 19, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC

indioul

Multiversal Horcruxes

When you know you've lived the exact present you're living now before, doesn't it make sense to think of it as though... there is another part of you in another universe, going through the same thing? I believe in the multiverse theory, for I cannot prove that we are not alone. I believe there is a reason why I feel the skies talk to me every night. I believe someone's message is reaching me through the beams of the moon every night. My skin seeps it in like a flower knows to bloom. Ever think of a time difference between one universe and the other? What if we are born here on Earth and after we die, our soul travels to another universe and relives the same story? What if... we are a horcrux of our own soul which is split up and placed in different universes?

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