poetry

Photograph

They place the photograph beside the pillow
where the night is softest and the silence speaks the loudest.
Not because they believe the dead will rise from paper and frame
but because love is stubborn.
It refuses to learn the language of absence.
So, the picture becomes a small lighthouse in the dark ocean of the room.
A familiar face holding back
the wide, cold emptiness of midnight.
In the hush before sleep, when the world loosens its grip,
they look once,
just once
and remember the warmth of a voice, the weight of a hand,
the way laughter used to live in the air.
The bed is no longer only a bed.
It becomes a threshold between what was
and what still is; because some people do not leave when they die.
They change address.
They move,
from the chair at the table to the quiet chambers of the heart.

IT STILL HURTS

You were supposed to be mine forever,
I had my heart up my sleeves for you...
But you felt it was best for it to shatter,
I was blindly in love with you.

Lies: you said you were busy at work…
Manipulation: you said it was all in my head…
Cheat: is what you were doing with a smirk,
Shared with another girl, your bed.

I am not letting the dew drops fall,
For the world has enough to wail about.
I am not letting this storm uproot the trees,
For love will be lost forever.

I planted the seeds with utmost care,
But!
You found solace in someone else’s garden.
It still hurts; it surely does 
But!
The heart has now hardened.