My chest is a library for all the things I didn’t say. ◆ The big confessions sit on the highest shelves, hardcovers with dust jackets
By Milan Milic5 months ago in Poets
I’ve put my heart on airplane mode more times than I admit, a tiny switch of self-defense that feels like choosing “quit.”
The tree is lit, and the stockings are hung Though this year there’s one less up on the wall * Your absence is felt every day, especially today
By Jaye Ruggiero-Cash5 months ago in Poets
Silver is my favourite metal. It is not brash like gold; I like its blueness and its clarity. Circles are my favourite shape.
By Rachel Deeming5 months ago in Poets
I own a jacket just for storms that start inside the phone, a second skin I keep for bad news, heavy and overgrown. It hangs beside the door like rain that never learned to fall.
I did it. I climbed the mountain of life and made it way up high. Thanks to the man upstairs I can stay up high. A mob of life came my way but it couldn’t run me down.
By Joe Patterson5 months ago in Poets
Our kitchen is a harbor where the dishes learn to drown, a coastline built of chipped white cups and forks that face me down.
The calendar hangs smug and flat, a grid of bossy squares, Each little box is a rented cage for sanitized affairs. It circles dates in lipstick red and calls them “must” and “should,”
We filled the apartment with houseplants the way some people fill it with children— hopeful, underqualified, carrying more Pinterest than practice.
Your side of bed still holds a shape that clocks refuse to know, a shallow moon where gravity remembers how you go. The sheets have learned your silhouette, the dent your dreams once made—
We stitch raincoats for our secrets out of half-remembered nights, from shower curtains, childhood quilts, and hand-me-down goodbyes.
I keep a ring of metal moons that never learned my sky, a jangle of old alphabets that no more doors reply. They’re fossils of before-times, love—of locks we used to share,
