“Echoes in the Graduated Cylinder”
In the glass throat of morning,
a single drop measures memory—
not by volume, but by ache.
Calibrated silence, etched
in milliliters of longing,
where each mark recalls
a moment we didn’t name.
The meniscus curves like a question,
hovering between surface tension and surrender.
And still, the wait drops— not to fall,
but to be seen.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 28th, 2025 01:59
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
Fido asks me (in a nice way): 'I suppose you didn't get any of the cryptic meanings of this poem - as usual?!'
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.