Unwritten Edges: A Tapestry of Moments, Myths, and Misdirections #poetry

An Opening

It begins—
not with a bang, nor a whisper,
but a pause, a breath held too long,
a hesitation mistaken for the first step.

You are here.
Or maybe, you were always here.
Or maybe, you’ve just arrived
in a story already unfolding.

The wind doesn’t ask your name,
but it carries it anyway,
folded into the creases of forgotten echoes,
tucked inside the spaces between words.

A coin spins mid-air.
Heads, you follow the path.
Tails, the path follows you.
Either way, it begins.

Moments

A second walks into a bar. Orders time, neat.
The bartender—glassy-eyed, cracked-lipped,
pours it slow,
lets gravity stretch the liquid thin
like the breath between heartbeats.

She watches the rim.
She always watches the rim.
The way hands hover near but never quite touch,
the way silence has a volume
that only the lonely can hear.

The clock on the wall sighs.
The patrons fold into their own absences.
A cigarette coughs its last whisper.
And outside, the streetlight flickers,
uncertain whether to hold its glow
or let the dark swallow whole.

Moments are cheap.
They pay in skin and hesitation,
in lips almost speaking,
in palms open but waiting
for a name that no one calls.

You sat there once,
you might be sitting there now,
or will sit there soon,
watching the condensation slide
like time refusing to be held.

Someone will walk past.
They always do.
Carrying a moment you forgot to catch.

Hiding in Plain Sight

This is the trick—
you do not disappear by fading,
you disappear by remaining exactly where you are.

The magician in the mirror
smirks at your reflection.
"You see yourself?"
"No."
"Exactly."

The world needs edges to define the middle.
Remove the frame,
the painting dissolves into wallpaper.
Remove the shadow,
the figure becomes a memory.

She wore ordinary like an art form,
a beige book on a beige shelf,
words muted by the weight of silence.
Even her absence
was easily mistaken for furniture.

You think you’d notice someone gone?
Try again.
Sometimes the missing were never really seen
to begin with.

Coincidence Too Good to Be True

A man steps onto a train.
A woman steps off the same train.
Their shoulders graze.
They do not turn.

Somewhere,
a book falls from a shelf,
landing on the page where they were meant to meet.

In another version,
they do.
Eyes lock like interwoven destinies,
breath held as if to keep from spilling
the secret that fate had whispered.

But this is not that version.

Here, the radio hums a forgotten song,
a song he almost remembers,
a song she never forgets.

Here, the bartender hears a joke twice in the same night
from two strangers who never met.
Both laugh like they’ve known each other forever.
Both leave before they can find out why.

What are the odds?
Impossible, improbable, inevitable.
Or maybe,
just a good story untold.

Larger Than Life

There is a woman who drinks thunder
and spits out lullabies.
There is a man who stitches wounds in the wind
so the storm never bleeds through.

You know them.
You don’t.
You are them.

They are myth and bone,
alchemy and accident,
a fraction too large for the shape of this world.

He once outran the sunrise.
She once held the ocean in her mouth
just to see how the waves tasted.
They do not belong in history books—
history books are too small.

They are written on tree bark,
on mountain ridges,
in the spaces between footsteps
when you think you’re walking alone.

Larger than life?
No.
Life is just too small.

Separate Your Dreams from Reality

Last night, you woke up twice
without moving once.

The window blinked at you.
The walls pulsed, breathing in rhythm
with something
that wasn’t quite human.

You swore the doorframe changed shape,
the lamp whispered your name.
Or maybe, just maybe,
you were still dreaming.

This morning, you check your phone
for a message you received in sleep.
The numbers on the clock feel… off.
Like they’ve been rearranged,
like time forgot its own order.

Did you dream the day?
Did the day dream you?

Somewhere,
a version of you wakes up
and wonders why everything feels
so eerily familiar.

A Closure

It doesn’t end.
Not in the way you think.

The story folds itself into the crease of another,
like fingers intertwined under the table.
A loose thread doesn’t mean unraveling—
sometimes it just means a different weave.

He leaves.
She stays.
Or maybe,
she leaves,
and he was never there to begin with.

It closes,
but not with a slam—
more like a sigh,
more like a book falling shut
with the weight of things unsaid.

A second walks out of a bar.
Time stays behind, unfinished,
a glass still half-full.

Closure is never about the ending.
It’s about knowing when to stop looking for one.

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#Poetry #Surrealism #DreamVsReality #Coincidence #LargerThanLife #UnseenTruths #HiddenInPlainSight #ExperimentalWriting #MomentsOfTime