Love and Its Ghosts
Poem
Published in
1 min readSep 28, 2024
I often wonder,
and in my heart
it echoes,
that people crave
a hand to hold.
There’s little warmth
for the living —
no cheers,
no odes —
embraces come
as rarely
as a summer snow.
But once you’re lost,
your worth
is revealed;
traded like whispers,
captured in memories:
“I knew them,
I cherished them,
I longed for them…
in silence.”
The hollow words
of the gatherers
who come
when love
has faded,
to settle old scores,
with feigned affection.
What a twisted
illusion,
to honor joy
when it has slipped away.
Years of laughter
were but a
practice run
for the final bow;
a stage where
the leading role
is just an ache.
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