She was a writer—
who used to write only about herself.
But somewhere along the way,
her poems began to echo only him.
Her diary smiled... and so did she.
She knew that road was never hers to take,
yet she walked—
each step a soft defiance.
Smiling was a slow, unfamiliar process,
but getting lost?
That came easy.
Still, she wasn’t afraid.
Even when she knew—
this wasn’t her anymore.
Yet she smiled...
as if it was the only thing left she could write about.
And maybe,
in some unwritten corner of a forgotten page,
she hoped he'd find her—
not as a memory,
but as a metaphor
he never understood.
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Comments1
I love your last stanza. A lovely poem that ends so well.
thank you so much. i read your poems they are really good.
You are most welcome and you are most kind
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