heartbreak
They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
Echoes of Forgotten Promises. AI-Generated.
Clara could still hear the sound of promises. Not the spoken ones, the ones carved into wood, written in ink, whispered late at night under streetlights. She could hear them in the way the wind passed through her empty apartment, the way the coffee cups rattled on the counter, the soft creak of the floorboards under her own hesitant steps.
By Ihsanullah7 months ago in Poets
The Last Letter You Never Sent
There is a drawer in every home that holds things we pretend are forgotten. In Mara’s apartment, it was a small wooden box on the top shelf, varnished but chipped at the edges. She hadn’t opened it in years. Inside were letters she had written but never mailed, ribbons that had faded from red to pink, and photographs that had curled at the corners.
By Ihsanullah7 months ago in Poets
False Spring
It never began with apologies. It began with a mild day no one had predicted. The kind that makes you pause in the doorway, coat in hand, and think — maybe not. You’d reappear carefully. Not grand. Not desperate. Just steady enough to make doubt feel dramatic. You spoke as if the past were weather — unfortunate, passing, nothing anyone could control. I wanted that to be true. So I let the air change without questioning it. Moved things back where they used to sit. Answered calls I had practiced ignoring. Translated sharpness into stress. Told myself growth can look like discomfort. And I believed you because the sun was out. Because the trees were trying. Because it felt unreasonable to doubt warmth while standing in it. False spring is convincing like that. It coaxes the buds open early, whispers, *see? it’s different this time.* Even the birds test their wings. Then, without announcement, the temperature drops at night. Petals go translucent. The ground stiffens again. You would say I was overreacting. That it wasn’t that cold. That I’d always been sensitive to weather. So I learned to call shivering a personality trait. Learned to apologize for needing a coat. Learned to study the sky instead of you. The hardest part wasn’t the cold. It was how believable the warmth had been. How briefly, beautifully ordinary it felt to stand in it without bracing. Now, when February goes soft, I still notice. Still feel that small lift in my chest. I just don’t put my coat away. Some warmth doesn’t mean arrival. Some seasons are rehearsals. And some winters never admit they’re still here.
By Brie Boleyn7 months ago in Poets
