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Lalit Kumar Mar 26
We are at a café we often visit, sitting across from each other, the same way we always do. She loves their cinnamon biscuits, the kind that crumbles at the touch but melts in your mouth with warmth. She always saves the last one for later, wrapping it in a tissue and slipping it into her bag.

Today, she does the same. But as she reaches for her bag, it tips slightly, and the biscuit drops. A tiny crack runs through it. She sighs, about to leave it, but I pick it up, carefully brushing off invisible crumbs, and hand it back.

"Still good," I say.

She looks at me, amused, and shakes her head before tucking it away again.

I don’t know why I remember that moment so much. Maybe because it was just like us—delicate but still holding together.

Months later, I’m searching for something in the backseat of my car when I find it. A tiny, forgotten bundle of tissue paper tucked between the seats. The biscuit. The one she saved that day.

She isn’t here anymore. Not in this car, not in my life. But the biscuit is. A fragile piece of something that once was.

I hold it in my palm for a moment, then unwrap it gently. It's crumbled now, beyond saving. But I don’t throw it away. Not yet. Instead, I close my fist around it, just for a second, before letting it slip between my fingers.

Some things aren’t meant to last forever. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t once whole.
umar farooq Mar 13
They discovered it and were trying to get to the bottom of it.
They had not encountered anything like this before, but they knew the effects of it.
Lying in the bed, waiting for his death, he looks as pale as a full moon night.
The aura of pain emitting from him is as gloomy as the new moon night.
They tried to cheer him up, guiding him to get out of pain, but all of them knew only he had to go through it alone.
That is the nature of the sickness that found him, which is called by the name 'love.'
There is no medicine for it except her redemption of the love given by him.
Lalit Kumar Mar 12
The Echo of Your Name
Your name lingers in the quiet air,
Like a whisper the wind forgot to carry.
I trace its letters in empty space,
A soundless echo, soft yet heavy.

When Our Eyes Met
A moment stretched beyond time’s grasp,
Two souls colliding in silent speech.
No words were needed, yet my heart knew,
In your eyes, home was within reach.

Between the Lines
I wrote you into my poetry,
Hiding your name between the lines.
Each verse a secret confession,
Of love untold, yet deeply mine.

The Last Goodbye
Your hands slipped through mine like the tide,
A farewell written in shifting sand.
I held on to every memory,
Yet time refused to understand.

A Love That Never Was
Some stories end before they start,
Unfinished verses lost in air.
We were a song half-sung, half-known,
Yet still, I find your shadow there.

Moonlight Letters
I wrote you letters in moonlight,
Words woven in silver beams.
But night kept all my secrets safe,
And morning stole my dreams.

Love in Silence
Not every love needs spoken words,
Some bloom in the hush of night.
A glance, a touch, a fleeting sigh,
Enough to set the world alight.

The Distance Between Us
Miles could never dim the fire,
That once burned within our souls.
Yet love is not just light and warmth,
It’s also the story time controls.

Waiting for You
Seasons changed, yet I remained,
A heart still tethered to the past.
Perhaps love is not just presence,
But in the echoes that forever last.

Unfinished Verses
You were a poem left unwritten,
A verse I never got to say.
Yet even in these broken lines,
You live in every word today.
Gideon Mar 8
We shared kisses like tools at a workshop.
Pecks were thrown around like nuts and bolts.
A small smooch was passed back and forth
like a screwdriver whenever it was needed.
A large kiss was given like a rotary saw.
It was handed over with caution and care.
The sloppy, makeout kisses sat as unused
As an oddly sized wooden board, one that sat
Along the wall with no purpose or project.
Excuses to not hold hands littered our home
like small screws and nails litter a garage.
Love sat in the back corner of our lives,
And work took its place as our purpose.
Our love dwindled. As did the number
of tools and supplies we used to maintain it.
Gideon Mar 8
We shared kisses like tools at a workshop.
There was camaraderie and kindness, but no love.
We held hands out of obligation.
Firmly grasping onto each other’s palms,
We feared that the other would suspect something.
With this thought passing through both of our minds,
We stayed together for months.
Pretending to care for each other,
Believing our lover loved us more,
Living a lie, and trying to believe it.
Gideon Mar 8
Everyone gets tired of me at some point,
Then eventually, they’ll leave. They all do.
Sometimes happy memories hurt the most.
The way you look back and see the hints.
Those little moments that reveal everything.
I constantly feel so ******* unwanted.
Gideon Mar 8
For you, a hand-made mother’s day card
For you, curiosity about your hobbies and interests
For you, endless forgiveness and grace
For you, tender, loving care during dark moments
For me? Abuse, trauma, and manipulation
Gideon Mar 8
There’s a reason why I keep it all inside.
Loving you was the most delicious form
Of self-destruction I have ever tasted.
I don’t want to write about you anymore.
raahii Feb 20
वो सर्द रातें , कड़कड़ाती ठण्ड,
वो धुंद का साया, और ओस मै जमे हम।
याद है अभी भी, जब तुम कसके हाथ पकड़ लेती थी
उन सुर्ख हाथों मै भी जान भर देती थी।
अब वो हाथ किसी और के हाथ मैं हैं
और ये सुर्ख हाथ, लाश सामान से हैं।
The cold winter nights once felt warm in your grasp,
But now, those hands hold someone else, leaving mine lifeless.
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