I ask about you. Wonder how you are? I wonder where you are? And if you think of me? The truth hurts as I know, You never ask about me.
For they say, I am never in your thoughts. My name is never in your mouth. I want to rage, cry and scream. I want to shake you and show you,
What you lost. But chances are you won’t care. I was never important and a thought. All I could offer was a loyal friend But that was never enough for you.
The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
The ink is a pulse, a rhythmic beat, Where worlds are born and shadows meet. For ten long years, the stories have grown, In quiet rooms and the great unknown— From the dark of the woods to the stars above, Built with a decade of labor and love.
There is a lightning strike in the chest When a character finally stands the test, When a sentence clicks like a skeleton key And the soul of the book is finally free. I know these bones, I know they are strong, I’ve carried these voices for far too long.
But the silence is heavy, a vast, open sea, Between the heart of the book and the eyes that should see. I’ve woven the magic, I’ve mapped out the stars, I’ve bled on the pages and counted the scars. I stand at the window, my hands on the glass, Watching the world and the witnesses pass.
“Look here,” I whisper, “the bridge is now built, Full of wonder and terror, of glory and guilt.” I know it is good—I have felt the fire burn, I’ve earned every chapter and every sharp turn. The thrill is the making, the joy is the craft, But the hope is the reader on this lonely raft.
So I’ll keep on shouting into the dark, Fanning the ember and chasing the spark. For the stories are ready, the gates are ajar, Waiting for someone to see who we are.
The silent, turning tide of life Has stretched the maps we knew, The seasons shifted, ground gave way, The ties between us drew
Slowly apart, a creeping drift. Demands attention, energy, Like water through the sand, Leaching the solid ground of time.
There was a time, not long ago, We were each other’s stay, The anchors holding fast and sure In storm of early day. We held the secrets, deep and bright, The wisdom time had wrought, Our days marked by the shared, full laugh, The tapestry we caught—
Before the world turned bright to cold. I feel the sharp ache of the miss, The ease we used to share, Where we could simply be, no need For any word or care. That ease is gone; the quiet now, The profound, long silence cast, Has tragically become the sound Our relationship held fast. When air grows thin with struggle’s breath, I seek those mirrored faces still.
I’m reaching back through the gray blur The passing years have made, Refusing that demanding life Will keep the things that fade. The miles that stand between us now Are lines on charts that lie, Meaningless compared to the depth Our history lifts high. Our memories, no fading echoes— But brilliant, fixed stars in the night.
With will and concentrated hand, I clear the tangled brush, Desperate to find the path again Beyond the isolating hush. A clear, resounding call I send
Into the lonely void. My friends, I want you now to know: I’m here, steadfast, unalloyed. I want us back—the kind of bond That bends but will not break, No matter what the wind may bring. It is the time our circle wakes.
The empty space of connection, the gathering, Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe. It hums with plans already made, A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go. My position is fixed: outside. I don’t move; I only watch the colors of the evening fade From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light. My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know.
The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp: That laughter sounds much louder through a wall— Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy, A painful noise. And conversely, Silence is a heavy thing to wear, A cloak woven from unsaid words. It presses down, making breathing difficult. So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all, A simple notification, an anchor thrown, To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there.
The name of “friend,” I embraced fully; We call them friends; I gave the name with pride, A sacred title for those to whom I opened life. I shared my secrets, listened to their own, Believing in a mutual exchange, a balanced scale. But now I wonder, standing on the side, A silent observer of their motion, If that foundation was solid. The crucial question takes root: If I am liked, or simply “loosely known.”
A chilling suspicion whispers of self-doubt: Is there a secret vote I didn’t see? A quiet pact to leave the chair unfilled? Or is the truth more passive, more insidious? Or is the lack of room inside the spree The consequence of slow emotional detachment? It feels like The way a dying fire is slowly stilled, The warmth receding until only ash remains. The question I need to ask is too large, too sharp to utter; It stays in my mind, a burning inscription in the dark: Do I have friends, or people I just know? Did I misjudge the reality of the bond? Did I mistake a flicker for a spark? The uncertainty is exhausting, forcing a decision: Is it my cue to turn around and go?
The core of the issue is heartbreaking simplicity: For if they wanted me, they’d find the space, They’d actively rearrange the elements of their plan. They’d reach across the gap to pull me through. This is the ultimate loneliness I face: There’s nothing lonelier than a familiar face— A face I thought knew me— That looks at everything—but never you.
A flicker in the digital sea, A ripple in the ocean vast, Announced a message, unanticipated, free, A bridge to years and moments past. No expectation, no alarm, A serendipitous, sudden light, A warmth against the day’s long harm, Dispelling shadows of the night.
The sender’s name, a long-lost friend, Appeared upon the silent screen, A cherished sight without end, Recalling what had been. A powerful, unexpected force, Across the void of silent years, Washing away the quiet remorse, And vanquishing old, silent fears.
A wave of joy, a deep embrace, Surged through the heart, dissolving time, As memories rushed, swift in their chase, Like a rushing, vibrant tide sublime. Laughter shared, a youthful sound, Secrets told in hushed reply, A core of trust that could be found, A sturdy thread beneath the sky.
Across the miles that held them fast, The vital connection instantly made, The digital form, a vessel cast, Where friendship’s enduring flame was played. Passionately kindled, burning bright, Unafraid of intervening years, A testament to affection’s might, Dispelling all the rising tears.
The quick exchange of grateful hearts, A quiet acknowledgement of grace, The inner vision of eyes that starts, Smiling across time and space. This sudden reunion, taking flight, A potent reminder, clear and true, Some bonds are not defined by sight, But by a spirit time can’t undo.
We walked the same path, pen in hand, Mind alight, a shared commitment’s sign. Pilgrims in a lonely, distant land, Chasing the same bright star, divine. Our bond, once firm, was forged by toil, Ink-smudged paper, the screen’s harsh glow, A hopeful process on a hungry soil, A private weight the outside doesn’t know.
But when the harvest comes, a sudden wrench, The seed you sow brings fruit upon my ground. The garden blooms, across a mutual bench, But only your name is on the flowers found. My careful work, the agonizing hours, My every effort, tragically the same, Is rendered Invisible, stripped of all its powers, Swallowed whole by an eclipsing fame.
They gather ’round your posts, a swelling tide, A deluge of bright approvals, warm and fast. Endorsements flow, they cannot seem to hide The joy they feel that you have made it last. I am a shadow in this scene so bright, An old contact they vaguely knew, unheard. They click the heart, basking in your light, But never glance upon my waiting, silent word.
Our dear ‘mutuals,’ who claimed a deep-felt tie, Are quick to share your links, to elevate. They laud your verse beneath the public sky, While my own craft lies in a silent state. So forms the question in my empty chest: Is it the work, the art’s intrinsic worth, Or merely the loud acclaim they love the best? The rising star, or the quiet flame of birth?
If friendship is a mirror, clean and true, Reflecting back the efforts we impart, What does their universal silence do To my ignored, distant, lonely star? If you are seen, and I am a pale ghost, Haunting the edge of your success and grace, Who is the friend, and who is merely the host, Ignoring the guest who waits within the space?|
The heart grows bitter, chilling doubt takes root. They loved the writer, the idea of the name, And not the soul, the person who bore the fruit, In the quiet, solitary, unlit flame. The bonds we trusted, once so strong and high, Were not of iron, nor loyalty’s hard line, But paper, flimsy, easy to pass by, Disposable in the blinding fire of your shine.
