I have built entire worlds of beauty—
soft similes, aching alliterations,
lines that could clothe a soul,
or undress it gently under moonlight.
But there’s no one here
to slip into the language I stitched.
No collarbone to carry my metaphors,
no palm to pour my sonnets into,
no laughter to stretch the meaning of joy,
no silence to sip my metaphysics like warm wine.
I am a poet debarred of purpose,
a candle burning in a room that no one enters.
My ink does not dry—it drowns.
It waits.
I have metaphors of rain,
but no skin to receive it.
I have verses of longing,
but no eyes to read them aloud.
It is a strange exile—
to be full of love,
and yet so utterly
unloved.
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