Prose
Dear, Moon. Content Warning.
Dear Moon, I’m writing because you feel like the only other one in this life that understands the texture of emptiness. You hover as a witness coldly carved out of stone. You shine like something that has already learned what it means to be alone. I wish I could tell you I see a way through the days, but most of the time they feel like repetitions of the same dull ache. There’s a kind of quiet suffering in simply existing when nothing pulls you forward. Yet somehow, I keep moving, even though the movement feels hollow.
By Dwight Manley2 months ago in Poets
First Frost
I should have heard it or felt it the first time the cold breath of it tried to extinguish my flame. That resonant no, echoing for all time, saying on every winter night filled with smoky breath; every spring twilight filled with hope, romance, and youth; every summer afternoon harsh with sunlight and suffocating heat, every magical moment of autumn seized as if the seasons can tolerate singular possession, that another’s desires must eclipse my needs.
By Harper Lewis2 months ago in Poets
