In the archive of skin where touch once lived,
I find the creases where your fingers slid.
Maps of you, worn like a traveler’s prayer,
Folded tight where love was meant to linger.
We were constellations in a reckless spin,
Stars colliding, gravity unsure where to begin.
In rooms that smelled of old books and rain,
We mapped each other like uncharted terrain.
Do you remember nights we lost in scent?
Chasing shadows on walls where love was bent?
Your laugh – a hinge where my world swung open,
My name on your lips – the one sound I'd stolen.
We wrote our history on fragments, on air,
No endings planned, no exits we could spare.
In stolen hours, in borrowed light,
We were the trants of our own wild delight.
Then the maps creased. The folds turned sharp.
Like paper cut deep, the severance left a scar.
You took the compass. I took the worn pages.
Now I unfold them alone, in altered stages.
In vacant lots where memories still cling,
I find scraps of us – a ticket, a useless ring.
The ghosts of touches haunt like unpaid debts,
Reminding me of hills we never got to trek.
Sometimes in dreams, I see your hollowed eyes,
A stranger’s gaze where once my name would rise.
The maps I keep – they lead to hollow places,
Rooms where echoes ask: _Did we leave without faces?_
Do I still love you? Like rain asks if it falls.
Like lungs ask if they need the air’s walls.
The wanting digs a channel, deep and blind,
A geography of you that I still trace in vain.
In twilight hours when shadows learn to speak,
Yours is the silence my skin tries to decipher.
Folding maps of you – an art I don’t surrender,
Hoping someday they’ll lead me back to tender.
But maps are for places we no longer roam,
And love is a country we misplaced our way home.
The creases deepen. The pages thin to mist.
What’s left is the ache where _you_ once existed.
In vacant spaces where we used to collide,
I still find fragments – a word, a useless tide.
The ghosts of us linger like unpaid debts,
Reminding me of love we couldn’t embed.
I fold the maps now. The creases blur.
In the archive of skin, your touch is a cipher.
Gone like stars we once aligned to name,
What lingers is the hollow where I still call _yours_ the flame.
About the Creator
Jhon smith
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Whispers of the Old Woods
The villagers said the forest had a memory. Not the memory of men, who forgot quickly and argued loudly, but a patient, listening memory, older than the river, older than the hills, older than the stones lining the village square. It hummed quietly at night, a sound like wind brushing against the trees, or perhaps the echo of old voices. No one ventured deep into the woods after dusk—not without reason. And those who did often returned changed, carrying the strange weight of stories they had not told themselves. Elara was not like the others. She had grown up on the edges of the forest, her window facing the trees that seemed to sway even without wind. Her grandmother would warn her, “The forest listens, child. It remembers your footsteps. Speak carefully, or it will answer in ways you cannot understand.” But Elara had a hunger for stories, a thirst for the unseen. One autumn evening, when the sunset painted the sky in molten gold, Elara walked along the familiar path into the forest. She carried nothing but a small lantern and her notebook. She wanted to hear what the forest had to tell her. The air smelled of wet leaves and moss. Shadows stretched long, reaching for her feet like dark fingers. And then, just as she reached the oldest oak in the heart of the woods, she heard it—a voice, soft and melodic, like someone humming an ancient lullaby. She froze, her breath forming tiny clouds in the cool air. “You come for stories,” the voice said. It seemed to drift from the bark of the tree itself. “But stories have their price.” Elara swallowed her fear and nodded. “I will pay it.” From the darkness, shapes began to appear—figures that were neither fully human nor entirely shadows. They danced slowly, circling the oak, their movements silent but precise. Elara realized they were the forest’s memory made flesh: the ones who had been lost to time but remembered still. “Long ago,” the tallest shape whispered, its voice like the rustle of dry leaves, “a child like you wandered here, seeking tales of courage and folly. She spoke, she laughed, she cried. And in return, the forest kept her, just as it will keep you, if you are not careful.” Elara’s hand gripped her notebook. “I seek only the stories,” she said, “not to be taken by them.” The figures paused, their eyes glimmering like starlight. Then one stepped forward, extending a hand made of woven branches. “Very well,” it said. “Listen closely.” And Elara listened. They told her of the fox spirit who outwitted the hunters, leaving only riddles behind. They spoke of the river maiden, who wept pearls into the stream and taught mortals the language of water. They whispered of the old king of the forest, whose crown of leaves had turned to ash, leaving only the wind to carry his commands. Each story twisted in her mind, strange yet familiar, like remembering a dream she had almost forgotten. Hours—or perhaps minutes, for time had little meaning here—passed. When she finally looked up, the figures were gone, and the oak stood silent, ancient as ever. But in her notebook, the stories were written, as if her pen had moved on its own. She returned to the village at dawn, carrying the forest’s memory with her. When she shared the tales, the villagers listened with wide eyes. Some laughed, some wept, some shook their heads and muttered about imagination. But Elara knew the truth: the forest had spoken, and she had heard it. Years later, when her own children grew old enough to walk among the trees, she would tell them to listen carefully. “The forest remembers everything,” she would say, “the good, the bad, and the forgotten. It speaks to those willing to hear—and sometimes, it answers in ways you cannot foresee.” And at night, when the wind rustled through the leaves, she would hear it: faint whispers, like the echo of a hundred old voices, singing stories meant for those who dared to walk beyond the edge of the known. In the forest, stories never die. They only wait, patient as stone, ready to find a listener willing to remember.
By Jhon smith25 days ago in Poets
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