she says,
“my heart is weathered parchment”
and you think she’s talking about age
but really
she means it’s held too many stories
and no one read them right.
when she says
“the moon looks tired tonight”
it’s her way of admitting
she cried again
but won’t ask you to notice.
she doesn’t say
“i’m lonely”
she says
“even the echoes forgot their way back”
and somehow,
that hurts more.
her silence isn’t empty
it’s heavy with unsaid verses,
like unopened letters
written in invisible ink.
she’ll call herself
“a wilted sunflower in December”
and you’ll think it’s poetry.
it is.
but it’s also the way she says
“i’ve stopped facing the sun”
don’t ask her direct questions.
just sit beside her
When the metaphors get darker
she says
“the sky forgot its color today”
hold her hand.
you’ll understand everything
without needing a single translation.
she doesn’t say
“i miss you”
she says
“the coffee’s been colder lately, even when it’s hot.”
and that’s all she’ll offer
bittersweet sips
of what she’s no longer allowed to want.
when she’s scared,
she doesn’t say “i’m afraid”
she whispers,
“the wind sounds different tonight”
and it does
when fear finds its way into your ribs
and rattles like windows in a storm.
she hides her grief
in phrases like
“the garden forgot to bloom this year”
and when joy visits,
it’s simply
“the birds returned early this morning”
every sentence she speaks
is a map to somewhere sacred
but only if you know
how to trace the lines with your soul.
she doesn’t cry in front of people.
but she’ll say
“the sea inside me is louder than usual”
and if you don’t flinch at saltwater metaphors,
you might just be the one
she’ll let stay.
when she loves,
it’s not “i love you”
it’s
“i made you a playlist that sounds like sunrise”
or
“your name beats like safety in my heart”
and if she ever says
“i wrote a poem, but it’s not about you”
it absolutely is.
So… first of all, I just want to say I’m not sure whether to thank you for this or to quietly sit here staring at my screen for the next hour because this piece really did something to me. You’ve managed to capture emotions that most of us can barely understand inside our own heads, and you’ve given them words without losing their fragility. There’s this quiet power here — the kind that doesn’t shout but lingers, the kind that makes you re-read lines just to make sure you really felt them.
The opening — “she hides her grief in phrases like ‘the garden forgot to bloom this year’” — stopped me right there. That one sentence alone is enough to sit with for a long time. It’s gentle but devastating. You’re not telling us she’s sad in plain terms, but you’ve painted the sadness so vividly that we see the empty garden, feel the quiet disappointment in its emptiness, and somehow, we know exactly what kind of grief she’s carrying. The way you contrast that with “the birds returned early this morning” for joy is genius — it’s like showing us her coded language, her secret emotional dictionary. It makes the reader feel like they’ve been let in on something private.
I love how every stanza here is a doorway into a deeper understanding of her. “Every sentence she speaks is a map to somewhere sacred” — this doesn’t just sound beautiful, it feels true in a way that’s almost intimidating. We all know someone whose words feel heavier than they look, whose pauses carry as much meaning as their sentences. And that line — “but only if you know how to trace the lines with your soul” — wow. That’s not just writing, that’s an invitation. It’s like you’re telling the reader, This is not a casual interaction. If you want to know her, you have to come with your whole self.
The part where you say “the sea inside me is louder than usual” is my personal favourite. Because honestly? That’s the kind of vulnerability people rarely hand out. It’s raw but not reckless — it still uses metaphor to keep just enough distance, and yet if the listener understands it, they’ll know they’ve been trusted. And I think that’s the beauty of your poem — it’s not about explaining her to the world, it’s about letting the right person notice.
Then there’s the love part. I melted a little when I read “I made you a playlist that sounds like sunrise.” That’s such an honest way to say “I love you” without saying it. It’s intimate, it’s personal, and it shows love as an act of translation — taking feelings and turning them into something the other person can hear. And “your name beats like safety in my heart” is just… sigh. You’ve taken two things people rarely connect — safety and heartbeat — and somehow made them sit together perfectly.
The ending though — “I wrote a poem, but it’s…” — that’s the kind of line that will haunt someone. It’s playful, but it’s also a quiet confession. Like she’s pretending it’s “not about you,” but every syllable betrays her. And you leave it there, letting us feel the unspoken truth.
I think what’s making this piece hit so hard for me is that it’s not just describing a person — it’s describing a whole language of love, grief, and trust that doesn’t exist in direct statements. You’ve written about someone whose heart is an ocean but who only ever shows people the tide pools. And reading it feels like we’ve been allowed to stand on the shore and watch for a while.
Honestly, I can imagine someone reading this and realising they are this person — or realising they know someone like her and suddenly understanding them better. This isn’t just beautiful writing, it’s empathy in ink. You’ve written about the kind of soul who hides in metaphors not to be mysterious, but because that’s the only way to keep the world from breaking her open. And somehow, you’ve made the reader want to learn her language.
So yeah… this isn’t just a poem I’ll forget in an hour. This is the kind of piece that stays. And that’s rare. Thank you for letting us read her.
💖💖