Prose
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
Love, Leaves
4/12/25 Geography is strange. I am here but I was there and you are never as far as I thought you were. I’m not allowed to love you anymore. Lots of things are strange. The itch in my palm. The ire in my stomach. Where do you feel your emotions— on the map, in a traffic light? In your throat, on your scalp? Bugs and hemispheres, electricity and flem— it doesn’t matter what it is if you don’t know where it’s from, if the last time you drew that house from memory it didn’t come close to the real thing. I’m not allowed to love you anymore, because the lights went out and the carpet had too many stains to make back the deposit. It’s a twelve hour drive, for God’s sake. I’m not allowed to love you anymore, so I’m giving my love to state lines, where the directions are tricky but I can’t blame anyone but me if the tire goes flat and I sleep under the stars with nothing but an itch in my palm to remind me that love, when it’s leaving, looks farther than it actually is.
By Olivia Dodge9 months ago in Poets
A Room That Forgot How to Echo
The clock in the hallway hadn’t ticked in three years. But Mia still wound it every Sunday morning, like muscle memory that refused to forget. The same way she left the porch light on at night. The same way she kept his shoes by the door.
By Shakil Sorkar9 months ago in Poets
"The Last Cup of Coffee"
The bell above the door chimed as Elena stepped into the tiny café on 7th Avenue, brushing snow from her coat and pulling the scarf tighter around her neck. The place was warm, humming with quiet conversations and the soft hiss of the espresso machine. She ordered her usual — one black coffee, one oat milk latte — and took a seat by the window.
By Shakil Sorkar9 months ago in Poets
