by Saerelune   Jan 31, 2020

You spill poetry into your palms
like they're pills of salvation -
anything to muffle the memories.

Nights are the loneliest:
the stuffed animal against your chest
is the only warmth you have.

No one else knows -
his fingertips are a ghost,
gone by sunrise.

3:36 PM


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  • 3 weeks ago

    by Poet on the Piano

    The first stanza is such a powerful simile, because how often do we use poetry in desperation, in ways to cope, praying it takes us elsewhere, anywhere else than having to relive memories?

    In the second stanza, the "plushy" part drew me out of the poem for a second, perhaps I was hoping for something more poetic or specific or elegant in a way?

    The last three lines are stark. They leave me feeling that his touch does not make an impact, it's barely there, barely memorable and when he writes or loves, his presence isn't fully there. It's drifting.