HOW THE ABANDONED HOWL
They all moved forward
I stood still.
Time passed me by
as if by will.
Silence bloomed where names should grow,
and I became what no one’d know.
The pain of being left behind,
the sting of absence, unrefined
they do not soothe, they do not spare;
they twist together, cold and bare.
This heart I hold too vast, too deep,
a vault of cries I couldn't keep.
My chest, a grave of muted calls,
my voice, a ghost inside these walls.
They chose their paths, they found their sun
but never paused for me, not one.
Why do their hands reach out with grace,
while mine just tremble in their place?
I watch them shine, I watch them dance,
but I'm the shadow in the glance.
A flicker passed, a fading trace
not even silence leaves me space.
When fear arrives, they turn, they run.
I am the wound they call undone.
Not once approached, not once embraced,
I’m always what they won’t have faced.
They fight for others, loud and brave
but I’m the cause they never save.
Not worth the storm, not worth the cost
just a quiet war they gladly lost.
It’s not the leaving that destroys
but never hearing in the noise:
"You're worth a step, a choice, a sound."
Instead, I vanish to never found.
A waiting room without a door,
a poem scratched into the floor.
A lighthouse dimmed, a fog too wide,
a shore no ship will turn beside.
Is it a crime to feel too loud,
to hope beneath a quiet shroud?
To ache for something undefined
a gaze, a name, a thread aligned?
I’m tired, not of love itself,
but of being left on every shelf.
Not chosen, sought, or even seen
just wandering where I have been.
Funny how abandonment has two languages: one that howls, one that dissolves.
HOW THE UNSEEN DISSOLVE
They all moved forward
and I stood still.
As if time itself forgot to take my hand,
and silence grew where a name should have been.
The pain of being left behind
and the sudden cold of being cast away
no, they do not cancel.
They echo,
they feed one another like shadows at dusk.
I carry a heart
heavier than my frame allows,
filled with words that no one stayed long enough to read.
They made choices
and I was never among them.
Why do open doors welcome others
while I stare at walls that do not even pretend?
I watch them all
the ones who are chosen,
the ones who are loved without condition
and I fade into a corner of their light
as though my existence
were a mistake politely ignored.
When fear creeps into the room,
they flee.
And I?
I am always what they run from.
The cruelty isn’t in the leaving.
It’s in never being stepped toward.
It’s in the stillness that screams:
"You’re not worth the effort."
I am the pause before desire.
The overlooked breath.
The unread stanza in someone else’s poem.
And still, I wait.
Like a burnt-out lighthouse
on the edge of someone else's storm,
calling to ships
that were never meant to see me.
What sin is it
to feel too deeply,
to ask too quietly?
I am tired.
Not of love
but of not being seen
where I have stood all along.
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