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I believed I’d hold those memories,  
like fragile, sunlit things—  
soft with smiles, sweet with sorrow,  
even when I knew I’d lose you.  

Now, they press like cold stones,  
each one carved with your name.  
The joy we had now hollows me—  
all of it turned into weight.  

I want to keep your laugh echoing,  
not the silence left after.
I want our past to warm me,  
not just bleed me drier by the hour.  

Somehow, the light we knew feels thinner,  
and this tide of grief drags me under.  
I miss the way I missed you then—  
when missing didn’t drown me.
Your smile, however distant,
is the reason I don't drown.
 Jul 15 The Romantic
lizie
there’s a kind of sorrow
that sits beside me,
quiet, tired,
like an old friend.

some evenings,
when the light turns gold
and your voice
drifts through the silence,
i almost forget
i was ever hurting.
I am not scared of death.
In fact, I find her attractive.
I like the thrill of being close to her.

I want her to hold me close.
I want her to be mine.
I want to be hers.

But my family wouldn’t approve of her.
And I love my family more,
Than I could ever love her.

So I keep my distance.
She’ll be mine someday,
She’ll be mine no matter what I say.
I need the summer,
as the winter's
subscribed
Agony of my liver,
with the sheets
open as my shivers
leave me trembling.

I know you've been accosted,
before we were acquainted
What's commanded
and in return gets defeated,
and a melody's lost in the beat.,

Are the fortunately beautiful,
are a favorite obligated,
In the breeze, rusty corrugated
I never negotiated prettiness,
in a ceiling of surrogates
colors to the cornices.

And in fighting,
the white of oil painting,
gets lost to yellowing
no windows glaring,
Only in summer heat,
The food between your teeth,
annoys others,
but never me....
or the corner of your grin......
white oil paint will always yellow without any exposure to light.
 Jul 15 The Romantic
Indra L
I’ve internalised invisibility,
Learned to distrust my own adequacy.

Sometime after shedding acquired skin,
I started to scream;
Craving to feel seen eventually gets boring.

Designing for someone else - I still felt;
Then I fell.

Into a shroud of contradiction,
I refused to flatten expectations -
All the while muting conformation.
 Jul 14 The Romantic
abyss
My sweet love,
the mirror of my soul,
the calling of my heart.

The day we meet is so sweet
in my tormented mind.
How can I feel so much love
for someone I haven't met?
But I know, in my tired heart,
that you're somewhere out there —
maybe, just maybe,
wondering if I exist.

My sweet love,
the thought of you,
of us,
makes my suffering, broken heart
quiet down for the night,
like a baby coddled by their mother.

My mind runs soft reels
of your breath mingling with mine
as we lay to rest,
your keys left near my books,
the way your voice might sound
when you're half-asleep and safe.
That kind of life —
the quiet, ordinary kind —
lulls my storm to sleep.

The mirror of my soul,
are you searching for me
in the faces of new people?

The calling of my heart:
can you sleep a little lighter,
knowing I'm waiting for your arms?

I hope this poem reaches you —
a whisper in your sleep,
so you’ll know I’m already yours.
Written for the one I haven’t met yet, but already miss.
May these words find you gently,
like a whisper in your sleep.
The sign said, “welcome”, so I opened up and I went in,
Thought I could move within and along.
But the faces were strange
And it seemed oh so plain,
Here was a place
Where I don’t belong.

There was a table before me where I thought I could sit
To devour the radish and bask in the song.
But gold brick shattered the plate
And the minstrels were late.
It turned out to be another place
Where I don’t belong.

And the next door led to another room
The lock was not so strong.
I wanted to fit,
Even expected it,
But it was another place
Where I don’t belong.

Down the street another stop to observe,
And I’ll wait among the throngs.
Perhaps here’s where I’ll see
Some people like me.
But it was another place
Where I don’t belong.

Alone on a walk, no need to talk.
Somehow isolation doesn’t seem wrong.
And it could be good,
This silent solitude.
Maybe
Here is the place I belong.
 Jul 14 The Romantic
Jayami
The nervous flicker of the candle's light
Dances wildly in my glistening eyes.
Feeling the cold night's tight embrace,
I quietly watch as the candle burns away.

Then I glance at my own guilty hands,
Smoothest skin ending at bitten down nails.
While my frenetic heart slams against my ribs,
Loud and clear, over and over again.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                          Hallowed be Thy App

               “…that unmistakable English church-going pace…
               holding, bound in black lamb-skin and white celluloid,
               the liturgies of a half dozen conflicting sects…”

                                -Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

One sees a Bible only occasionally
Even more rarely a Sunday missal
Which, with coat and tie and the mantilla
Are relics of a courtlier, more dignified time

The faithful now carry the scriptures as apps
The rosary the same (maybe next to Candy Crush)
An electronic conscience funded by an investment firm
And available at a low introductory price

A talking box - it must be Godly and true
And just as eternal as the Apple II
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