Poems About Missing Someone Novels & Stories

He stood there for a long time, staring at the empty seat in the lobby where her name was still on the sign-in list. One line of ink, fading proof she’d been real, but gone all the same. He walked outside, letting the sea wind slap his face until his eyes burned. He thought of her maybe somewhere on a train, staring out the window, believing he’d moved on. And he thought of himself standing here, believing she’d forgotten. It was almost poetic, the cruelty of it. How they both kept missing each other by inches like fate was playing puppeteer with broken strings.

A shrine to the people I've lost sitting right on my bed-side table. Picking up the pristine copy of my Dad’s poetry book, I fanned through the crisp pages. It had once been a ritual of mine to fan through the book during hard times. I would close my eyes and choose a poem at random. It was once a way to stay close to my Dad, but now had turned into a habit. With my eyes closed, I let my finger land on one of the many poems. In the end, the treasure of life is missed by those who

The day didn't pass... The hours..didn't fly.. The minutes..didn't pause... The heart didn't beat till the time I didn't miss you, You were my soul.. My heart... My forever.. But now my body is just a mere ashes.. Living without you in the bare land.. With no signal of love, Wandering all around the dessert looking for the water.. Water of love And more especially you. ____________________________________________________

Seek It's been two months and still nothing but an utter and the silencing death of lonesome. Just the echoes of your breathing and the heat it comes with it. It rings to my ears and sends chills down my spine. But nothing beats a devastating turn of events if you are not here by my side. Even though your presence is gone, I can feel the atmosphere that was left by the distance. It brought days and weeks of weeping that evolved into a drastic cry for help.

I sat and watched the sunrise, all of my hopes for the night being poured into my third cup. Even after all of the reading and rereading of screenshot poems that tell me that pain is something I can forget and that time can paint sunsets on all of the places where your hands have touched me, I still remember you and miss you. I can still remember you on my third mug of the bitterest tea, just as your sweet kisses stayed on my lips for months, only now my taste buds are numb from the food your tongue had provided for my stomach.

All I could do was endure, wait, and hold on to the woman I was becoming in his absence. The candlelight flickered again, casting shadows that made the apartment feel both intimate and vast, a strange contradiction I couldn’t reconcile. I found myself walking to the window, letting the cool night air touch my face, willing it to carry away the heaviness in my chest. I imagined him walking through the streets somewhere, his steps echoing in places I couldn’t see. The thought was almost unbearable, the ache of missing him twisting deep in my stomach.

There are poems inside of you that paper can not handle. So, they always stay within you. -Unknown. |I R I S| I am home. With the nervousness and fear deep in my heart, I stand at the front of the door of my house. Tori and Vince stand on the either side od giving me the time of the world before I ring the bell. I missed my parent. If anything, I miss them even more. There were always phone available. I could have always called them but there was this strange longing inside me that craved their presence.

I trace the lines with my fingers, hoping to feel a connection, a whisper of her presence that I so desperately crave. But it's in the quiet moments, the ones when I'm alone with my thoughts, that her absence hits the hardest. The nights are the worst, when the darkness seems to swallow me whole and her laughter no longer fills the silence. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying memories of her smile, her voice, her touch. I miss her voice, the way she would hum softly to herself while painting, the sound of her laughter that could brighten even the darkest of days. Her absence is a weight on my chest, a constant ache that refuses to dull with time.

“What mom? How can you say that--” She gave me her phone. There was a poem he had written. “I’d love it if you read this and think that I feel anything for her-- “She was my life, she left, life left. Never had anything, even my soul has left. Being a boy was never the best thing, When the only girl I ever loved left. Do you know that feeling? When there is nothing to see? Because you just don’t know What you should be? When there is no reason to live

The world listens. "I am sad," I say. "Not the kind of sad that means something is wrong. The kind of sad that means something is missing. The roses are missing. The light is missing. The warmth is missing. And I miss them. And missing them is okay. Missing things does not mean I am broken. Missing things means I am human." The sun comes up. The sky turns pink. The birds start singing. But the birds are different in November. They are quieter. They are fewer.