weekends turn…
into quiet confessions—
coffee cold in the mug,
your socks still on the floor
like evidence.
I trace the steam
that curls up like regret,
wondering if the rain
is just the sky
trying to apologize
for everything
we never said.
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Author:
ROSHI (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 16th, 2026 16:05
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
This poem has a mood well set by the imagery. William you have done what poetry is supposed to do left the feeling so strong that it is like the smell of coffee being brewed and can not be denied. A fave
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