Friendship
Almost, My Almost: A Ghost Love in Four Acts
The Poem of Loss "Almost, My Almost" They say grief has five stages, but no one warns you about the sixth: the haunting of 'almost'. That limbo between love and loss where every memory wears two faces - what was and what could have been. This is where I live now, in the museum of our nearly-was, where even the air smells of interrupted futures.
By WhitedSonnet9 months ago in Poets
Beneath the Willow Tree
The first time Noah saw the girl beneath the willow tree, she was sketching the sky like it might disappear any second. It was the middle of July, and the park was hot and green, full of kids screaming and sprinklers spinning in suburban rhythm. But under the oldest willow, a girl sat alone with a pencil, a notebook, and a thousand-yard stare that looked right through time.
By Shakil Sorkar9 months ago in Poets
The Clockmaker’s Gift
In the heart of a fog-drenched town nestled between the mountains and the sea, stood a little clock shop that defied the passing of time. It was not a place most people noticed, even if they walked by it every day. The wood-paneled sign simply read: Avery's Timepieces, and in the dust-speckled window sat a curious array of ticking machines—some no larger than a coin, others towering like soldiers frozen in brass.
By Shakil Sorkar9 months ago in Poets
I am whoever you want
May 15, 2:20am So I’ll be the friend who proofreads your emails, and the one to mediate an argument to which I have no ties, and the one who makes a present instead of buying it. I’ll be somebody you like, you invite to everything but don’t expect to show up, and I’ll be there if the crackling in my legs hasn’t gone through vessels and veins. I’ll be the friend who takes photos from different angles and deletes the bad ones, and I won’t tell you that the sun makes your skin look like sorbet, or how I never wanted to write your resignation or give away that necklace for your special occasion. I’ll be someone who adores you for the time spent together, wishes you happy birthday and tries to mean it, and I’ll be the one to give you advice that needs deciphering when all you wanted was enablement. You’ll keep me around because you like how my brain works, and I’ll keep you around because I don’t have a desire to change in any real way. We’ll keep each other for future reference and reach out with a blessing once a month, and I won’t answer your calls because I’m massaging the muscles in my thighs and trying to remember how to walk again.
By Olivia Dodge9 months ago in Poets
The Sound of Rain on Tin
Where the soul listens, and sorrow softens. It began with the roof. A soft tapping, barely there, like the footfalls of ghosts. I sat alone on the back porch of a weathered cabin, high in the hills, a mug of tea between my palms and a thousand miles of silence behind me.
By Shohel Rana9 months ago in Poets
The Road Between Us
I remember the day you left, though I try not to. It was autumn, and the leaves were the color of old fire. The air smelled like apples, woodsmoke, and something else I couldn’t name — maybe grief. Maybe goodbye. You didn’t say much. You never did. Just packed your worn green duffel bag, the one with the broken zipper, and looked out the window like the world outside had something better to offer.
By Shohel Rana9 months ago in Poets
The House Beyond the River
The river curled like a silver thread at dusk. I used to stand by it, bare feet in the mud, listening to its secrets. It never spoke loudly, only whispered — about rain in far-off hills, about fish darting through the reeds, about things that lived and died and left no trace.
By Shohel Rana9 months ago in Poets
