You laugh at them. You point your finger and call them a fool. Their silence amuses you, their gentleness becomes your joke, and the crowd joins your laughter as if kindness were weakness. It feels enjoyable today, sweet on your tongue like careless victory. Their patience becomes your stage, their humility your entertainment. But time is a quiet witness. It watches without speaking, It writes its lessons slowly in the turning pages of life. A day will come When laughter turns into tears. The echoes of your mockery will return to your own ears like thunder across an empty sky. Situations will arise without warning, storms without hands to beat you Yet heavy enough to break your pride. Pain will arrive quietly, And you will feel the trembling of a heart that once laughed too loudly. And that fool, that funny person you once mocked, may stand in the distance, not laughing, but witnessing your tears, your shaking voice, Your falling ego. For life has a patient way of bending the tallest p...
Break-ups do not shatter in a single sound,
they press down slowly,
a steady weight upon the chest,
as if the air itself has thickened
With everything we can no longer say.
Silence arrives first.
It stretches across the room,
pulls the curtains closed,
replaces the easy rhythm
of familiar voices and shared breath.
Where warmth once lingered,
stillness settles in its place.
The ordinary becomes unbearable,
empty chairs,
a phone that does not light up,
the absence of a name
once spoken without effort.
Loss grows loud in its quietness,
a constant awareness
that something sacred has slipped away.
Two hearts, once aligned,
Now beat alone.
Loneliness does not shout,
it hums beneath the skin,
a low reminder
of what love once sounded like.
Some words never found daylight:
Forgiveness withheld,
truths swallowed by pride,
“I’m sorry,” resting
on the edge of almost.
They linger between us,
unfinished sentences
with no ending.
And so we face the road ahead,
not together,
but side by side one final time,
before choosing separate paths.
Different directions,
different horizons,
carrying pieces of each otherWee cannot return.
The ache follows for a while,
walking quietly beside us.
Yet beneath the heaviness,
something softer begins to grow.
Peace,
slow, stubborn,
pressing its roots
into wounded ground.
It does not erase the past.
It does not silence the memory.
But it steadies the heart,
and whispers gently,
You can keep walking.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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