love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
The Clock That Forgot to Tick
The clock above the doorway stands, Its hands still locked, like folded hands. No ticking sound, no steady beat, Just silent hours in soft defeat. It stopped the day you walked away, And froze the world in shades of gray. No morning came, no evening passed, Just moments trapped, forever fast. I dust it off but let it sleep, A quiet secret that I keep. Its face reflects my silent ache, A wound of time that will not break. I count the days without a chime, Each second lost, a stitched-up rhyme. You took the time we used to share, Left hollow space and still air. Yet part of me still hopes one day, You’ll turn the key and look my way. And maybe then, the clock will click— A heart reborn, a brand-new tick.
By Solene Hartabout a year ago in Poets
Unsent Letter
I wrote you a letter I’ll never send, Folded with tears I didn’t intend. It sleeps in a drawer beside my bed, With words I meant, but never said. “Dear you,” it starts, with shaking hands, “I hope you’re safe in distant lands.” I speak of nights I dreamt too loud, Of memories hidden in a cloud. I wrote of smiles I still recall, The way you laughed, the way you’d fall Asleep while talking, eyes half-closed— Those little things I miss the most. I didn’t send it, couldn’t try, Too scared to hear no last goodbye. But still, it rests where no one sees, A paper hug, a heart’s release. If someday you feel a whisper near, It might be my words you hear— Carried by wind, soft as a feather, From the pages of my unsent letter.
By Solene Hartabout a year ago in Poets
''Train Girl''
She waits where iron pathways meet, Among the rhythm of wheels and heat, A book in hand, a gaze afar, A soul in motion like the car. The train arrives, the whistle sighs, Steel heart beating 'neath open skies, She boards with steps both sure and light, A shadow passing morning's light. Window seat, her traveling throne, A world of strangers, yet alone, Mountains, towns, and rivers flow, She watches life in reel and glow. Ink-stained fingers, dream-filled mind, A heart untethered, unconfined, The train may stop — she never will, A wanderer with time to fill. She’s not just going — she’s becoming, In tracks and turns, there's something coming. The girl on trains the world might miss, Is writing life in moments like this.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Poets
