I loved you not as metaphor permits—
but as roots crack stone: inevitable, slow.
Your eyes rewrote my cardinal directions.
My promise? Anvils wear less than I owe.
Love stayed love (no alchemy to acid,
no blessed wine turned vinegar with time).
Had it rotted, I’d have torched the orchard—
but the blossoms cling like guilt to every vine.
If grief were smoke, I’d let the sirocco
scatter every ashen memory.
But this heart refuses pyres—
it keeps its arson quietly.
Yet something in me still resists the dark—
not light, but embers that refuse to die.
The ribs may cage them, but the wind remembers
what the hands won’t speak: the body keeps its fire.
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Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: June 30th, 2025 02:00
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Priya Tomar
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Comments2
This poem requires several readings to appreciate its subtle and gentle lines. It speaks to me out of quiet sorrow, with a sense of lingering mourning that can not let go. It is brilliant and a fave
A sense of mourning the loss of love, a heart that won't forget the sorrow and pain, beautifully written, pleasure to read
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