love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
Strength Without Words
We have traveled a long road together through these stories—from the first encounter and the pain of betrayal to the maturity of middle-age love and the war between the heart and the mind. Now, we arrive at the most important destination: the sanctuary of the present moment. True strength isn't always found in loud victories or grand gestures. Sometimes, it is found in the quiet room where we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, knowing that we are watched over by a love that doesn't need words to be felt. This is my promise to myself and to the peace I have finally earned.
By Magma Star 7 months ago in Poets
The Accidental Meeting
Life has a strange way of testing our progress. Just when we think we have mastered the art of "choosing ourselves," the past reappears at a corner, unannounced. An accidental meeting can feel like a sudden earthquake, shaking the foundation of the strength we worked so hard to build. This poem captures that terrifying moment of standing face-to-face with a ghost who never said goodbye—and the difficult realization that to survive this time, I cannot be the person I was before.
By Magma Star 7 months ago in Poets
Meeting in the Middle of Life
Coming to terms with a love that arrives in the middle of life is a quiet revolution. It is a different kind of heartbeat—one that carries the weight of history, the faces of our children, and the scars of previous endings. After the illusions of youth fade, we are left with a simple, profound need for companionship that doesn't demand we erase who we were. In this part of my journey, I explore that delicate balance between the fulfillment found in my children and the specific, quiet yearning for a partner who understands the "middle" of the road.
By Magma Star 7 months ago in Poets
Instructions For Sewing a Shadow
First, wait until he’s sleeping— the kind of sleep only boys with unbroken hearts can manage. Quiet as snowfall, gather the pieces he keeps losing: the part that doubts, the part that wants, the part that promises tomorrow. Lay them across the floorboards like a crime scene or a pattern to follow. In low lamplight you’ll see they’re thinner than you remember— shapes that flicker when you look too closely, dark where your hands have worn through. Thread your needle with promise. Not the pink kind, or the kind whispered in the warmth of June— use the winter-thread, the one strong enough to hold a man to himself. Stitch gently. Shadows bruise easily. When he stirs, say, It’s nothing. Keep working. Tug—not too hard, not too soft— the balance you learned from loving people who never learned you. If the seams don’t hold, if the shadow slips free the moment he runs, don’t blame your hands. They were steady. It’s just that some men prefer to travel light. And if you find yourself alone by morning, needle cooling in your palm, thread slack with goodbye— fold the shadow you saved for him. Place it in a drawer with the other things you repaired that no one returned for. Close it. Turn away. Notice how your own shadow moves with you— how it never needed stitching to stay.
By Brie Boleyn7 months ago in Poets
