Your side of bed still holds a shape that clocks refuse to know, a shallow moon where gravity remembers how you go. The sheets have learned your silhouette, the dent your dreams once made—
By Milan Milic4 months ago in Poets
We stitch raincoats for our secrets out of half-remembered nights, from shower curtains, childhood quilts, and hand-me-down goodbyes.
I keep a ring of metal moons that never learned my sky, a jangle of old alphabets that no more doors reply. They’re fossils of before-times, love—of locks we used to share,
I found a shoebox in the dark behind a winter coat. Its cardboard spine is still whispering like a paper-throated throat.
The roof remembers how we turn toward weather and light. Your vow was copper, spinning slow in the square of the window.
The air is crisp, the sky still deep, the streets outside in muted sleep. A gentle chill, a breath so clean— the season shifts in shades unseen.
By Mario Vogelsteller4 months ago in Poets
Our living room keeps theater hours long past evening’s news; The curtains won’t agree to close—they yawn and then refuse.
Glyph is a sovereign language. Indigenous cultures across the globe Using this communication method To inspire, fight wars, and love.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 4 months ago in Poets
At two a.m., the world goes wide, the clocks forget their keep, and we become footnotes of light—love notes at the edge of sleep.
We create from the empty space with shaky hands. Filling up nothingness that no one can explain. Our thoughts turn into bridges, weak yet real.
By Emily4 months ago in Poets
At dusk, the living room grows lips; the patterns start to speak— a flock of tiny ivy leaves that whisper at the cheek. They murmur from the plaster seams in threads of cream and gray:
I found your name behind the glass, in coils of chrome and light. A snack-sized fate with foil shine that flickered late at night.
