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I left an earring on your nightstand
like a dare,
like a dog whistle only I could hear,
like a lie I could almost live with,
like a warning you didn’t read.

You wrote me like you were killing time.
I let you.
I was tired—
tired of being the intermission
between things you actually wanted,
tired of holding out my hands
just to catch the sound of you leaving.

It was raining the next day.
Of course it was raining.
The whole city smelled like last chances
wrung out in the gutter,
like a bouquet dropped
when someone realized it wouldn’t change anything,

You said,
"Take care of yourself."
And I did—
by breaking every mirror
that still showed me your mouth,
by smashing every reflection
that looked like hope.

There's a version of me
still waiting at that train station—
wearing the wrong jacket,
gripping the wrong book,
mistaking longing for directions,
carrying promises like ballast.
I'll know it's you
by the way my spine recognizes the disaster
before my eyes do.

I hope she never learns.
I hope she keeps looking up every time the wind shifts.
I hope she believes in arrivals.
Even when no one steps off.
Navya 23h
Lively chatter
Glasses clinked
Chairs shuffled
Then all of a sudden
Dark hair
Brown eyes—
Boyish, warm, curious.
A pale seashell necklace
A black earpiece.
My heart rallentando.

The sun rippled over the surface of the pool, gleaming.
Carbon bubbles clawed at my throat.
The Mallorca sun pleasurably scorched my legs.
The sun kissed your shoulder blades.
Showing off the way your skin clung to your bones.
That, there.
Made me hold my breath.

Cheers and groans.
Pearched on a bench, your arm around your sister.
You watched the little football match.
I walked past silently.
My brain beginning to tick like a bomb.

The birds taunted me.
The sun was blinding.
The chairs screamed when pulled.
Glasses clashed.
Made my way to the bus.
Saw you there. Waiting for yours.
My luggage staggered behind me.
I watched you from the window.
Growing smaller and smaller.

As the bus rattled away
I pulled out a map.
The size of my finger—
UK to Italy.
You, a world away.
wrote this a while ago while grieving my holiday crush lol. I'm fine now.
DanDoes Dec 2021
Pitter patter
Rain comes down
Spitter spatter
Face with frown

Wet crunching
Under feet
Dreary people
Walk in street

Not
Me

Rain comes down
Air is clear
Family in town
Winter here

Outside cold
Warmth is sweet
Chocolate hot
Marshmellows eat
Every day on this train station,
I stand and wait for confirmation.
She's standing on the other side,
and lets her hair out in a glide.

Shadows spilling on the platform,
wind is blowing in my face.
Number 23 incoming,
she is getting on the train.

And as I stand on this train station,
she turns around in confirmation.
The train doors close, I wave goodbye.
We'll see each other in no time.

The air feels nice, the station – empty,
next train is scheduled, one of many.
A windy summer afternoon,
it's cool, it's quiet, it goes too soon.
Hafren Apr 15
I’ve been trying to flutter away
From that beautiful smile which shone brighter
Than anything I had ever envisioned
I’ve been trying to flutter away
Because I know if I try hard enough
My wings will become larger and majestic
And my name, written amongst the stars
Staggering, tumbling and quivering
Like a small dove riding against a windstorm
I’ve been trying to flutter away
Today my heart beats relentlessly quick
As if begging me to falter and realize
I’ll never get near the sun without melting away

As much as I try, the cyclone vows to break me apart
Spilling my feathers around a world of longing and craving
As of now, I still can’t fly so high
However, I’m not like Icarus
My wings aren’t frail and made of wax
I’ve been trying to flutter away
Eventually I’ll reach the sun
And the day when my memories spent
Alongside your beautiful smile
Which I still love and cherish
Will become just a warm and gentle breeze
Of the past
Honey Apr 14
Ink's running out
as my thoughts get loud.
In between you and me,
my cup’s fuller.

The strings attached
are still clinging on tight—
but I will not hold on
any longer.

For this is, by chance,
a brief experience.
And that,
I should be grateful for—
because you made me feel
something
I had been longing for
before.

To be held,
for once,
with hands so warm
and willing
to engulf me as a whole.

This fleeting experience—
I'll hold on to.
For not even once
have I felt
a deep connection
I never wanted to end.

Perhaps,
it was you
or how you made me feel.
Or maybe,
it was your eyes
that I still wish
to stare into—
at least
for one last time.
Dianali Apr 4
Your recent visit in my dreams was bitter
I held my arms up for a truce;
still aching, you were witter
I’ll rate it a 3/5
(you have been sweeter)
Lalit Kumar Apr 1
I sit, the world around me a blur,
Masi talks, but I’m lost in a stir.
Then, the call—unexpected, sharp and bright,
My heart leaps, racing into the night.

Why her, why now? My thoughts collide,
A hundred questions swirl, but none I can hide.
Should I pick up? Should I dare?
Her voice, her presence, it’s too much to bear.

The call drops—disconnected, left to wonder,
My heartbeat thunders like distant thunder.
Then the text, a playful jest,
"Yes, Your Highness," my chest does protest.

She replies, “I need to show you something,”
My pulse quickens, anticipation thumping.
A mystery, a pull, but I can't resist,
I pick up the phone, nervous, clenched fist.

She speaks, her voice like an old, sweet song,
And I hear laughter, where I belong.
But there’s more—Her friend by her side,
And their boyfriends, caught in the tide.

My heart skips—Romantic rival stands, so near,
And I can’t look away, trapped in fear.
She tells him to shut up, her voice a command,
And I watch, helpless, as life slips from my hand.

She turns, showing her saree’s glow,
A princess in pink, stealing my soul.
And I ask, “Are you at Lawgate?” with a smile,
She teases, “MBA,” for just a while.

“I’ll come back too,” I say, trying to play,
But inside I ache, like I’ve gone astray.
Her image haunts me, her beauty remains,
A moment lost, wrapped in chains.

Her voice soft, “Later,” she says with a sigh,
And I stand there, watching her leave, asking why.
She’s with him now, and I’m here, lost,
Her laughter echoes, my heart pays the cost.

We never were, yet we shared it all,
In the same PG, memories that call.
The quiet nights, the shared glances, the unsaid truth,
Now lost in time, like forgotten youth.

Her image stays, as vivid as then,
A beauty, a mystery, forever my friend.
Yet she walks with him, and I stand apart,
A stranger to her, with a broken heart.

Her smile, her saree, the memories remain,
But my heart races, lost in the pain.
Romantic, yes, but sadistic too,
For I loved her then, and still do.
Lalit Kumar Mar 26
She had a habit of noticing the moon.

No matter where we were—walking down a crowded street, sitting in a café, or even mid-conversation—her eyes would flicker upward the moment the sky darkened.

"Look at that," she’d whisper, pointing like it was some rare discovery, like the moon hadn’t been there every night before. But for her, it was always new. Always worth a pause.

I never paid much attention to it before her. The moon was just... the moon. A constant, unchanging presence. But when she looked at it, she saw something else—something soft, something worth noticing.

One night, we were walking home, our hands brushing but never quite holding. She stopped suddenly, tilting her head back, eyes shining in the silver glow.

"Doesn’t it make you feel small?" she asked.

I looked at her instead of the sky. "No," I said. "Not when I’m with you."

She smiled, shaking her head at my answer, but she never said anything more. Just slipped her arm through mine, and we walked on.

Time passed. She isn’t here anymore. Not beside me on evening walks. Not stopping mid-sentence to point at the sky.

But the moon is.

And now, without meaning to, I find myself looking up every night.

Out of habit. Out of memory.

Out of love.
Lalit Kumar Mar 26
She had this habit of stealing my pens. Not in a careless way—no, she’d always take them with this playful smirk, twirling them between her fingers as if claiming them as her own.

"You have too many," she’d say, slipping one into her bag.

"And you never have one," I’d counter, watching her tuck it away like a prize.

It became our thing. Every time we met—at coffee shops, libraries, or even just in my car—she’d end up with one of my pens. And every time I pretended not to mind, but secretly, I started carrying extras. Just for her.

One evening, as she sat across from me, doodling absentmindedly on a napkin with yet another stolen pen, I asked, "Do you even use them, or do they just pile up somewhere?"

She grinned, biting her lip. "Maybe I just like taking something of yours with me."

I didn’t respond, just watched her trace circles on the napkin, my stolen pen spinning between her fingers.

Months later, we drift apart. Not suddenly—just a slow, quiet unraveling. The messages become shorter, the calls less frequent. And then, one day, there’s only silence.

One afternoon, I’m looking for something in my desk drawer when I see it—a pen. Not mine. Hers. The only one she ever left behind.

I pick it up, twirling it between my fingers the way she used to. I don’t even try to use it. I just hold it there, wondering if, somewhere in her bag, my pens still exist. If, in some quiet moment, she finds one and remembers me too.

Some people don’t take things to keep them. They take them to hold onto a feeling.

And maybe, just maybe, she held onto me too.
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