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My stomach does that thing—
you know, when the ghost
rests a hand there.
Not a hit.
Just a hush,
and fingernails.

Like it never left.
Like I’m the one
who forgot to feed it.

It’s always at dawn.
Or mid-laugh.
Or in line at the dollar store—
buying nail polish I’ll chew off by Tuesday
and an eyelash curler,
just in case he sees me
from across a decade.

Then you paraglide in—
a salesman who knew I’d be home.
And the floor remembers
what I worked so hard to forget.

And I gasp—like I tripped.
But I didn’t.
I remembered.

I remembered
the ghost
you left me to raise alone.

Like:
“Hi. Just passing through.
Don’t stress on my behalf.”

I nod.
And I don’t.
I keep chewing the same nail.
My eyelashes are curled.
My stomach still does that thing.

You know the one.
Vafa Abbasi Apr 9
A rose she stands, so soft, so bright,
Knowing well the coming night —
The winds will tear, the storm will rise,
And close forever her gentle eyes.

Yet still she blooms without regret,
Her petals kissed by sun still wet —
She lives for love, she sways with grace,
And meets her end with a quiet face.

Not fearing loss, nor fighting fate,
She fills her hours, though brief, though late —
With peace, with hope, with colors spun,
And love — until her days are done.
Even when life is fragile and short, bloom with love, live with grace, and let the wind carry your story.
Vafa Abbasi Apr 5
A wandering soul, so lost, so wide,
Drifting through shadows where dreams reside.
For ages it wandered, through time and through space,
Seeking the moon, its soft silver grace.

One day it found, in a small stream’s glow,
A reflection of the moon, a light to bestow.
It wept in silence, the tears soft and deep,
For the love it had lost, for the promises it couldn't keep.

The willow tree sighed, its branches low,
The soul sat beneath, where the cool winds blow.
"I've loved the moon," it whispered, "for eons untold,
But I’m trapped on Earth, bound by a cold hold."

"Why must I remain in this world so dark,
While the moon shines above, like a dream, a spark?"
The willow wept softly, its leaves fell away,
As the soul, in silence, longed for the day.

It gazed at the moon, its heart filled with grace,
But forever imprisoned in the Earth's embrace.
A soul with no home, no body, no name,
Only a love that would never be the same.
A wandering soul, longing for the moon, finds solace in a small river's reflection. Yet, it is bound to the earth, unable to escape its earthly fate. This poem speaks of love, loss, and the eternal search for something beyond, hidden in the light of the moon.
Lalit Kumar Mar 26
Once, you bloomed with reckless grace,
soft petals blushing in love’s embrace.
The wind would sigh your fragrant name,
as morning light adorned your frame.

Held in hands that trembled sweet,
pressed to lips where longing meets.
A whispered promise, a fleeting vow,
yet time has traced you different now.

Your crimson fades, your petals fall,
but love once touched you—that is all.
For though you wilt in golden dusk,
you lived, you loved, and that’s enough.
Lalit Kumar Mar 26
Some rest in a lover’s trembling hands,
whispering vows too soft to last.
Some lie upon a quiet chest,
a farewell kiss from petals past.

Some twirl free in the morning breeze,
brushing the sky in fleeting flight.
Some are pressed between old pages,
holding echoes of moonlit nights.

Some are worn behind an ear,
a fragrant crown for fleeting youth.
Some are crushed beneath careless feet,
forgotten before they bloomed.

Some wilt alone, unseen, unsung,
fading into the earth once more.
Yet all have known a moment’s grace,
a touch, a tear, a love once pure.

For every petal tells a story,
each bloom a breath, a life, a chance—
and whether scattered, held, or broken,
every flower still must dance.

— 🌸
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.
They love to say
we bring out the best in each other
that I bring out the best in you,
like that's the only thing I am good for,
the only reason I am in your life.

They smile
and point.

It won’t last.
Eventually, he will leave.
Even the moon goes through phases.

As if I’ll just
pack my bags
and leave you behind,

as if I could just
erase my entire existence.

Baby,
I love how they think
you cannot think
for yourself.

your friends,
all the people around you.

They think they know
the truth
when they see me
half the time.

Baby,
I understand
the concept,
the concern.

But even the moon
doesn’t fully disappear,
If you look closer.

Just because they don’t see it
doesn’t mean
I’ve left your sky.

Some things
are just meant
for you.

No matter
how much they point,
or try to pull you
to the side,

there is no hiding
from you
I want to build a home with you
a place pieced together of words,
passed from you to me.

Eventually, the walls will breathe,
and they, too, will whisper
through our bones.

No matter how old we get,
they will still be there.

Although neither of us will
completely own this home,
what we will own
is how it makes us feel
and the memories we'll soon sit on
like furniture.

A place we'll come to spend
most of our time,
an inner standing
that it will house both of us,
no matter how we choose
to express ourselves.

The first meal we'll have,
I'll season with my smile
so you can taste what I taste
and feel what I feel
when I see you.

Then you'll understand
why I have nothing to hide,
why I open and include you
in different places in my life.

In this home I want to build with you,
there isn't a wind or a force
that could blow it down.

Even if we were to separate,
my hands will still remember
how we built it
brick by brick,

the mortar sealed
with a kiss from your lips
Well, babe, I’ve been let go
I am still learning how to let go.
My hands are so tired.
The people we once were,
the you I once knew,
evaporate into the rearview.

If you refuse to drive
hell, if you won’t even touch the wheel
we’ll keep speeding toward something too dark,
something neither of us can name.
I don't want that for us.

If not for me, then for you.
If I take my foot off the gas,
we go nowhere.
You said, let go.
But there is no way I can let go
without leaving you behind.

We don’t have to crash.
Babe, I’m tired.
We’ve driven too far past the last exit to turn around.
Skidded across the median more times than I’d like.
I don’t mind the potholes,
the chipped paint,
or the blurred lines.

but if we pull over,
I’m not getting back behind the wheel
Joan Mar 16
Your friends acknowledge my insecurity
Late-night talks about your history
And the pretty girls before me
"You see him too much,
You take him away from us"
Why am I there?
And why would I care?
Maybe I am a phase,
Slowly I will fade.
Thoughts on last night
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