by Euclid Moore
Each line threads intimacy with aftermath. The Nightly Poet writes through contact so tender it bruises. A delightfully aching poem! 🩵
There are sometimes no more weepier times, than when a soul ... stands onthe cusp of precipice ... and wills themself to apologize to self, to mourn for self, to say goodbye to self
This stopped me.
The quiet unraveling, the intimacy of absence,
you've captured the ache of love lost not with anger, but with reverence.
It reads like a goodbye whispered into the folds of memory.
Beautiful, haunting work.
Sometimes it is just over and then you move on, no matter how bereft you feel. And it can take so very long.
Each line threads intimacy with aftermath. The Nightly Poet writes through contact so tender it bruises. A delightfully aching poem! 🩵
There are sometimes no more weepier times, than when a soul ... stands onthe cusp of precipice ... and wills themself to apologize to self, to mourn for self, to say goodbye to self
This stopped me.
The quiet unraveling, the intimacy of absence,
you've captured the ache of love lost not with anger, but with reverence.
It reads like a goodbye whispered into the folds of memory.
Beautiful, haunting work.
Sometimes it is just over and then you move on, no matter how bereft you feel. And it can take so very long.