love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
Whispers of Love
I found you in quiet moments, Where words dared not intrude; In glances that felt like dawn, In silence soft and crude. I traced the constellations Your eyes carried each night; The universe seemed smaller When our hands held so tight. We learned that love is patient, A garden slow to bloom, It thrives in storms and stillness, It grows in sun and gloom. You taught me hearts are fragile, But stronger than we know; That love is not just passion, But where two souls can grow. Time will steal our shadows, Days will lose their light; But love’s quiet whispers linger, Through darkest, longest night. So let the world keep turning, Let seasons come and flee; For love’s soft echoes anchor The you inside of me. ---
By Huzaifa Writerabout a year ago in Poets
When the Moon Forgot How to Shine
No one could explain when it happened or how—but one night, the moon simply stopped glowing. The stars blinked uneasily in the sky, unsure whether they should keep twinkling without their luminous leader. The oceans, confused by the absence of the moon’s pull, became restless. High tides crashed against once peaceful shores. Night animals stirred too early or too late. And the people, well… the people noticed. The world didn’t plunge into complete darkness. Streetlights still flickered on, phones still glowed, and lanterns still burned. But the nights felt heavier. Empty. As if something ancient and sacred had been misplaced. In a quiet little village tucked between the forest and the sea, an 8-year-old girl named Lyra noticed more than most. She missed the moonlight that had once danced on her bedroom floor and the way it lit up the tips of waves like fairy dust. Most of all, she missed talking to the moon. For as long as she could remember, Lyra had whispered secrets to the sky before bed. She believed the moon listened, not just passively, but as a friend—one that held her dreams in its light. But now, it had gone silent. One evening, Lyra sat on the windowsill, chin resting on her knees, and spoke to the blackened sky. “Did you forget, Moon? Or did something make you forget?” The moon, cloaked in shadow, didn’t respond. But Lyra felt something stir in her chest—a feeling like being called. That night, she dreamed she was walking among stars. A celestial hush surrounded her as she approached a silver figure curled into itself, dim and trembling. It was the moon, not round and glowing, but crumpled like a fallen balloon. “I’m tired,” the moon whispered in a voice like the rustle of leaves. “I shine for so many. I’ve held the tides, the dreams, the stories... and now I am empty.” Lyra reached out, placing her small hand on the moon’s surface. “Then let me help.” When she woke, Lyra knew what she had to do. --- She began collecting light. She captured the last rays of sunset in jars sealed with warmth. She asked fireflies to lend her their glow. She danced in candlelight and laughed beneath lanterns, bottling joy like it was moonlight itself. Each night, she whispered stories and dreams into her jars—wishes, hopes, and memories. She wrote poems on leaves, drew pictures in the sand, and hummed lullabies that echoed into the dusk. The villagers noticed Lyra’s odd behavior. “She’s playing pretend,” they said. “Chasing fairy tales.” But they didn’t stop her. Some were quietly grateful. The village had felt dimmer since the moon’s disappearance. Lyra, somehow, still sparkled. Weeks passed. Then, on the longest night of the year, Lyra climbed the tallest hill with her collection of glowing jars. She opened them one by one, releasing the light, the dreams, the laughter into the dark sky. She spun and danced, her arms reaching toward the heavens, calling out to her old friend. “Moon,” she cried. “I haven’t given up on you.” The sky held its breath. And then, slowly—tenderly—the edge of the moon began to glow. At first, it was just a sliver, as if shy or unsure. But the light grew steadier, fuller. The stars seemed to lean in, emboldened. The tides steadied. Night creatures settled. And in the gentle hush of a world remembering its rhythm, the moon returned. --- The next morning, Lyra awoke to find her bedroom floor bathed in silver again. Her jars were empty, but her heart was full. Outside, people were smiling. The old night fishermen returned to the sea. Lovers walked under moonbeams once more. And though they never knew why the moon began to shine again, they felt the magic of it. Only Lyra knew. From that night on, whenever the moon seemed tired, Lyra whispered a story, sang a lullaby, or danced with a lantern. She knew that even celestial beings need reminding of why they shine. And far above, the moon, full and bright, never forgot the little girl who had once filled it with dreams. ---
By Mati Henry about a year ago in Poets
The Things I Never Said at Her Funeral
I didn’t speak at her funeral. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. Because my voice caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat and refused to come out. Because the things I had to say didn’t feel like they’d fit in a neat paragraph of remembrance. Because how do you summarize a person in a few minutes when they took up your whole heart for years?
By Jawad Khanabout a year ago in Poets
“The Sweater You Knitted”. AI-Generated.
“The Sweater You Knitted” (A Poem Between Son and Mom) Son (to Mom): In the silence of winter, when the cold winds blew, I wrapped myself tight… in the sweater from you. Threads of your fingers, loops of your care, Every stitch whispered, “My love’s always there.” You made it at night, when the world was asleep, While I chased my dreams, yours ran deep. A patch of blue, a knot of grey— You tucked your prayers in yarn that day. Mom (to Son): My boy, I remember your little cold hands, The way you’d shiver when frost kissed the land. So I sat by the fire with needles and thread, And wove all my love in brown, gold, and red. You wore it the first day you walked to school, The sleeves too long, but you felt so cool. I watched from the window, heart wrapped tight, In the sweater I gave, and your brave little flight. Son: Now I am grown, and seasons have spun, But still, I return when the day is done. Your sweater’s worn, the colors have bled, But your warmth remains in every thread. Mom: I’ll knit you a new one, if time allows, Though my fingers are slower than they were once now. But love doesn’t age—it only grows strong, And sweaters made with love last lifelong. Together: Between these threads of wool and time, Are hugs unspoken, soft and kind. A bond not broken by distance or years— A sweater of love… sewn with joyful tears.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Poets
