heartbreak
They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
đź’” Inside Her Silence
By: Muhammad Ilyan Ahmad > I walk like I’ve borrowed her weight, Shoulders slightly lower than usual, As if her sighs were stitched Into the seams of my shirt. I speak in the pauses she leaves behind, Not my own. I time my laughter to match The echo of something she might have found funny, Last week. I drink my tea slow now, Not because I like it cool— But because she once said "Some things lose their meaning when rushed." And I rush less now. Or try. Because it feels like something she would need. I scroll past news she’d have cried at, And frown, As though my heart feels What hers would have felt. But truth? I’m only mimicking muscle memory. I walk into rooms she’s never seen But picture her standing In every doorway, Arms crossed, Waiting to see If I’ll understand what she never said out loud. When I act as if I’m in her feelings, It’s a dance with someone else’s shadow— A performance of care That flirts with real empathy But never quite fits. It’s guessing the color of sadness In a language I never learned to pronounce. Trying to dress in her grief Like a coat two sizes too loose— Warm, but not mine. I write messages I’ll never send In the voice she used when she was strongest, And reread old conversations Just to remember the way she curled her words Around pain, So soft you'd think she meant comfort. I’ve made playlists in her mood. I play songs she’d hum in passing, Hoping the ache in her melody Might somehow spill into my skin. Sometimes I look at the sky and wonder If she’s watching the same clouds. If she knows that even from a distance, I try to feel storms through her eyes. I try. But trying is not knowing. And knowing is not being. I don’t know if she notices. Or if she sees through My rehearsed responses, My carefully timed nods, My borrowed sorrow. But maybe pretending is a kind of love too. Maybe trying to feel What isn’t mine Is the closest I’ve come To being hers. Because I know what she won’t say— That she wants to be seen Without performing her pain. And I can’t ask her To narrate what hurts. So I fold her silences into my pocket, Speak her storms into my voice, And trace the shape of her tears On my own reflection. Not to deceive— But to bridge. Not to perform— But to reach. Because sometimes, Becoming her echo Is the only way I can stay near Without being in the way. I’ve learned that love is not always A knowing. Sometimes it is A listening from a distance. A reverence for someone else’s chaos. A willingness to carry the wind Without asking where it blew from. And though I may never fully live Inside her storms, I will stand at the edge with arms open, Let the rain touch me anyway. Because maybe love Is learning to be changed By feelings that are not yours. Maybe love Is not asking her to come out of herself— But learning how to visit The quiet places she’s built To survive. And maybe, If I stay long enough in the shadow of her pain, Without needing her to name it, She’ll know— I never acted. I became. --- 📝 Poet’s Note: > This poem is about emotional attunement — the ache of loving someone enough to try and live inside their inner world, even when you know it isn’t fully yours. It’s about honoring the boundaries of another’s experience while still reaching toward it with open hands. Sometimes, empathy isn’t perfect. But it’s still love.
By cheaper collectionabout a year ago in Poets
Healing After a Cherished Memory
Everyone has their own path to walk, and along the way, there are hurdles to overcome. For you, this person was both a barrier and the most beautiful scenery you had ever seen. This journey has brought both joy and hardship.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharingabout a year ago in Poets
Poems for the Heavy Days
When the weight is too much, we write to remember we are still here. There are days that feel like fog pressed into skin. Not stormy. Not bright. Just… gray. Heavy in a way that’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived inside a moment that doesn't want to pass. These are the days when the world asks too much of you and your hands feel too small to hold it all. When texts go unanswered. When even your favorite music sounds like silence. When it feels like you're breathing underwater and pretending it’s normal. We don’t talk enough about those days. We especially don’t write about them—at least not out loud. But poetry has always been my way through. Not a solution. Not a cure. Just a thread. A way of saying, “I made it through today. That’s enough.” --- I. The Weight There’s a kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix. It lingers in your bones, in your eyes, in the way you shrink from your own reflection. It’s not always sadness. It’s not even pain, sometimes. It’s just weight. Like you’re carrying something invisible and you don’t even remember picking it up. I remember one morning when I sat at the edge of my bed for almost an hour, staring at the wall. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t doing anything. I just… couldn’t move. The world had gone on without me and I didn’t have the energy to catch up. So I wrote a poem. It wasn’t brilliant. It wasn’t even good. But it existed. And that was something. Sometimes, all you need is to exist a little more than you did yesterday. --- II. The Quiet Kind of Grief Poems for the heavy days are often the quiet ones. No grand metaphors. No dramatic crescendos. Just truths whispered on paper. “I am still here.” “This hurts, and I don’t know why.” “I miss a version of myself I can’t get back.” These lines may never win awards. But they save lives. There is something sacred about writing pain without needing to dress it up. Something honest about letting your poems be soft, small, tired. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t always come from loss. Sometimes it comes from life. From expectations that collapsed. From futures that faded. From the quiet realization that you don’t recognize the person in the mirror anymore. --- III. The Thread One day, I shared one of my “heavy day” poems online. I almost didn’t. It felt too raw. Too unedited. Too much like bleeding in public. But something made me click “publish.” And the response was something I’ll never forget. Dozens of messages. Comments like: “I thought I was the only one who felt this way.” “You just put into words what I’ve never been able to say.” “Thank you for this. I needed it.” That’s when I realized: these poems aren’t just for me. They’re for the girl who cried on the train and wiped her face before anyone noticed. For the man who doesn’t know how to talk about his mental health because he was raised to stay silent. For the teenager writing poems in the back of math class because it’s the only thing that feels real. Poetry is a thread. You toss it into the dark, not knowing who’s there. But sometimes, someone grabs the other end and holds on. --- IV. The Light That Waits Poems for the heavy days don’t always end in hope. But sometimes they do. Sometimes, after writing about the weight, I feel lighter. Not healed. Not fixed. Just… acknowledged. And that is a beginning. And sometimes—on rare and beautiful days—I write about the light. A poem about the sound of rain on the window and how it felt like forgiveness. Or the taste of tea after hours of silence. Or the way someone said “take your time” and really meant it. Those poems are soft victories. Proof that even in the heaviest moments, something good can exist. --- V. For You, Reading This If you’re reading this on a heavy day, I want you to know this: You don’t have to write a masterpiece. You don’t have to explain everything. You don’t have to be okay. But maybe… write something. Three words. A sentence. A line that doesn’t make sense yet. Let it be messy. Let it be tired. Let it be real. Because your voice matters. Even when it shakes. Especially when it shakes. And someone out there—maybe even me—is waiting to read it and say, “Me too.” --- Poems for the heavy days are the ones that carry us when we can’t carry ourselves. They are anchors. They are mirrors. They are quiet reminders: You are not alone. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
By Muhammad Umarabout a year ago in Poets
