Grief is poetic
when silence becomes the ink,
when you’re lost for words
and find them buried in your chest.

Sadness, clear as crystal,
mirrored in my eyes,
but you wore blindfolds of comfort.
You turned your gaze to lighter skies.

I’m an afterthought
when loneliness creeps in
a name you whisper
only when silence is too loud.

But I
I search for you in every face,
feel your shadow
in rooms you’ve never walked into.

You remember me
in quiet hours,
As I carry you into every crowd,
haunted by your absence
Through the noise.

My hands, once steady,
now tremble like candle flames
in the draft of your memory.
They couldn’t speak
in the heat of your imaginary touch.

I wear your absence
like thread through my ribs
delicate,
yet pulling every breath, a little thinner.

You left like morning mist,
vanishing before I could hold it.
I stayed, like a love note never read,
creasing in someone else’s drawer.


This is a poet’s day
dressed in metaphors,
dripping with invisible ink,
smiling like a well-penned lie.

And still a smile lingers,
painted on like a mask.
It’s all they see.
No one reads the footnotes
where I buried everything I meant.

By: Zoulaikha