#one poem a day | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

faedotexe · 3 months ago

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Moonlike marbles, pink blemishes Like craters on their surfaces - From port to starboard they roll And it hurts as they move - Their quiet heartbeats On the synthetic floor (Careful not to hear the rattling at the door)

The column that holds the place, It strains against every step or Breath - Growing gardens of bones on its wing, Blossoming with bubbles of white Translucent chrysanthemums - in grapes So heavy it might fall.

They wear cowls And flowing capes And skin-tight, dimly coloured suits And drape themselves so they won't Know that they have skin: They shiver at mirrors And shiver at the wind.

They built stairs Leading to nothing - to forget Which doors open where. They taped windows to the walls With masking tape - too weak to hold The weights of both looking Within or peering without.

Sitting on cratered wood, they hold onto Strands of vines, and stalks and grains All turned to black, streaked with silver veins - Smelling of soil and colder ash - ( Harvests have been scarce - Distant thunder blessing baskets With a mere pound of stars)

The roots have grown Into knots, and on the knots Lakes of mold, and in the mold Those eyes await, wide awake. As the roots twist and grasp The wood burns and breaks and Screams in the secret tongues of the second sky.

There is this drumming In the stone of the column In the glass of the dome (where they painted the stars) It comes as the tide and breaks with the waves - It leaves in a sigh - and paints with a hush - The sand in sleeping greys, the coast with a burning brush In colors that left their name to a world of scars.

They wear hoods, Short black vests, Shoes that look like shoes and Pants that look like pants. They go from east to west and sing A song that leaves no trace - But when they stop - the dream is dreamt, and the tears are wept.

They push viscous sludge into The rotting metal tubes That run from the cellar to the house, Green and smelling like strawberry. (Artificial and sour, from a fizzy drink Forgotten in the fridge.) They push with hands and feet through dark aluminium grates.

As it goes down, the tubes Spasm and contract - So they keep pushing with their hands, They keep pushing with their feet, Until it goes down and down and they sit. (Then they buckle as the tide comes back And their hearts spill - in a geyser of bile black.)

None of them has the strength To lift hammer or titanium nails. They limp back and forth Grabbing papers and putting them down Forgetting where they went or why they would drown. So the roots will knot and the tubes will spasm - And the column will crack and the marbles will roll -

But look! Look at the painted sky over the house! Full that it is of all the colors from the waves! And the shells in cradles, the chitin in the tombs! In porcelain sets and golden shimmering wounds - Brimming with shades taken from her breath on your neck, From the hand in your hair - Sure, the house will someday fall, But the house hasn't fallen - that day hasn't come yet!

25/09/24

#it's been a while since i've written poetry #usually i do one poem a day for a month every year #between december 15th and january 15th #but this year i didn't #because i wasn't feeling so good #so i guess uh #well it's not really an excuse since it's how i got out of depression #which is how i started this whole thing #well now is as good a time as any #haven't been feeling super productive these days #well i haven't been super productive #so fuck it right #also now i can post them here instead of keeping them on my computer #well i guess i made a collection of them after having reworked them a bunch and shit #but i only did that the first year #i really need to update it like the volume has more than quadrupled i think #the quality i don't know #but well anyways the rule for those is that they dont have to be good they just have to exist #i'll see how long i keep it up #just one poem is good already right #Usually there's fancy formatting with like spaces and shit #but that's for the premium book version tm lmao #one poem a day

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pandapetals · 3 months ago

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Love Poem

You dig around in Logan's desk to find a history textbook but end up finding a poem he wrote yet never showed you.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - established relationship (y'all married), cute, fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

"I’ll just be a minute," you called over your shoulder, your voice echoing in the hallway as your students shuffled papers and murmured amongst themselves.

You slipped into Logan’s classroom, the familiar smell of chalk dust and aged wood welcoming you like an old habit. The space felt odd still without him here, the lingering warmth of his presence yet obvious in the organized chaos that cluttered his desk—a pile of essays half-graded, a forgotten coffee cup with a fading ring on the edge.

Your eyes flicked over the bookshelves, seeking the history textbook you needed to weave a little more context into your next lesson. You couldn’t remember which one Logan used, but you were sure he had mentioned it.

Your class was dissecting the complexities of literature, but you’d thought adding historical context might breathe new life into the lesson.

You moved to Logan’s desk which was, like him, layered—precise, yet spontaneous; structured, but with hidden corners of unpredictability. You tugged open the top drawer, the scent of old paper meeting your nose as you spotted the thick textbook nestled atop a jumble of pens and stray notes. You reached for it, the weight of it solid in your hand, but the sudden thunk as it hit the desk startled you. A crumpled piece of paper fluttered to the floor like an afterthought.

You hesitated, your fingers already reaching for it. Something about the way it had been tucked so carefully away made your pulse quicken, a tiny ripple of curiosity stirring in your chest. You crouched and picked it up, smoothing the edges between your fingers. The paper felt worn as if handled too many times, folded and unfolded in moments of private contemplation.

You weren’t one to snoop, not intentionally, but there was something about this slip of paper that pulled you in before your better judgment could intervene. It wasn’t a random note, not a stray grading rubric, or a scribbled reminder. The handwriting—Logan’s unmistakable looping scrawl—was deliberate, careful. Then you saw it, a phrase that caught the breath in your throat before you even realized what it said.

My love, in the quietest hours, you are the melody I hum, the verse I can never finish, the breath between my thoughts.

Your heart stuttered. This wasn’t a note for work. This was poetry. And it was unmistakably his.

You sank into Logan’s chair, eyes tracing the rest of the lines, each word unfurling like petals of a flower you never knew existed in your marriage. Logan had written you poetry. Intimate, raw, overflowing with emotion he rarely expressed in words, at least not like this. But he’d never shown this to you.

A strange mixture of warmth and hurt settled in your chest. Why hadn’t he? Had it been written in the early days, when love was still new and full of wonder? Or was it more recent, penned during some quiet moment when you were too busy grading papers or attending faculty meetings to notice him scribbling away in his office?

The bell rang in the distance, a sharp reminder that the world outside this room still existed, but you couldn’t move. The paper was still in your hand, a fragile secret that somehow felt heavier than the textbook beside it. You stood slowly, your mind whirling with questions you didn’t even know how to ask yet.

The door creaked open behind you. Logan’s voice, familiar and warm, filled the room. "Did you find what you needed?"

You turned to face him, the poem tucked neatly back into the folds of the paper, your fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. He tilted his head, a hint of concern creasing his brow. "Everything okay?"

For a moment, you considered confronting him right there, holding up the poem like a tangible piece of his heart that he’d unknowingly handed over. But something stopped you. Maybe it was the vulnerability in his eyes or the weight of this new discovery that needed time to settle before you could give it words.

"Yeah," you said softly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "I got what I needed."

Even as you left the room, Logan’s quiet footsteps behind you, the poem whispered in the back of your mind—unfinished, like the love it spoke of, waiting for the right moment to be fully realized.

Later that evening, as the mansion settled into its usual evening quiet, you found yourself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board echoed in the stillness, but your mind kept drifting back to the poem. The words lingered in your thoughts, hovering over you like a melody you couldn’t shake.

You stole a glance at Logan, who was sitting on a bar stool at the counter, flipping through a book with an absentminded expression.

He looked so relaxed, his brow smooth, his posture comfortable—the complete opposite of the man who had poured his heart onto that crumpled piece of paper. You wondered how long it had been since he'd last written something like that, or if he'd even thought about showing it to you. The question buzzed at the back of your mind, but you were in no rush to ask. Not yet. You wanted the right moment, one that felt like the softness of the poem itself.

As you stirred the pot on the stove, you caught Logan’s eye from across the room. A small smile tugged at your lips. There it was—the moment.

"So," you started, drawing out the word in a teasing lilt, "I found something interesting today… in your desk."

Logan blinked, lowering the book slightly as his eyebrows furrowed. "In my desk?" His voice had the cautious, playful suspicion of someone who already knew they were in for it but wasn’t quite sure how.

"Mhmm." You turned off the stove, wiping your hands on a dish towel, savoring the small flicker of nervousness in his eyes. You could see the gears turning in his mind, searching for what you might’ve stumbled upon. His face didn’t betray much yet, but the subtle shift in his posture told you he was anticipating something.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing your arms, letting the pause stretch just long enough. "A poem."

Logan froze, the book slipping closed in his lap. His lips parted, but no words came out immediately. The embarrassment washed over his face in slow motion—a soft flush creeping up his neck, his fingers twitching slightly against the fabric of his jeans. He sat up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could brush away the heat rising in his cheeks. "Ah, that," he muttered, his voice quieter, almost sheepish.

"Yeah, that." You raised an eyebrow, your smile widening as you watched him squirm just a little. "Logan, I didn’t know you had such a way with words. It was… beautiful."

He chuckled, the sound awkward and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at his hands. "I’m not great with words, not really," he said, his voice low but sincere. "I never know how to say things out loud, you know? Writing… I guess it’s easier that way. It’s just—" He paused, struggling to find the right words, his fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest.

You took a few steps closer, softening your tone as you reached for him, placing a hand gently on his knee. "Logan, you don’t have to downplay it. The poem—it was you. Every line. Every word." You tilted your head, catching his gaze, your voice teasing but tender. "How long have you been holding out on me, huh? Keeping all these love poems hidden away?"

Logan’s eyes met yours, a quiet vulnerability there that he rarely showed. He let out a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. "Honestly? I wrote it ages ago. It just… never felt like the right time to give it to you, I guess."

You nodded, understanding settling between you like a shared secret. "But why not? I mean, it’s… it’s lovely. It’s us."

Logan exhaled slowly, his hand reaching up to cover yours. "I don’t know. I guess part of me thought it wasn’t enough. Like, I can never quite say what I want to say. You deserve more than half-finished poems on crumpled paper."

You squeezed his hand, feeling the tension in his grip, and leaned in just a bit closer, your voice softening to a near whisper. "Logan, I don’t need anything more. That poem—it’s enough. It’s more than enough." You paused, letting your fingers brush gently over the back of his hand. "In fact… I want more."

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise and something warmer beneath it. "More?"

You nodded, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah. I want more of you—on paper, in words, in poems. Write them for me. Even if they’re unfinished. Even if they’re messy. I don’t care." You leaned in closer, your voice barely more than a murmur now. "I want to see more of what’s in here." You tapped gently against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

Logan’s expression softened, the embarrassment fading away as something else took its place—relief, maybe, or something akin to it. He smiled, the kind of smile that was just for you, full of that quiet, understated affection he had always carried. "I’ll try," he said softly, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you. My poetry gets very cheesy."

You laughed, the sound warm and light, and pulled him into a kiss, the poem forgotten in the best possible way as you sank into the moment with him, the quiet hum of affection settling comfortably between you.

When you finally pulled away, you whispered, "Cheesy’s my favorite."

Logan grinned, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Well then, I better start scribbling some more love notes," he teased, but his eyes were sincere, a new promise between the two of you.

As you turned back to finish dinner, your heart felt lighter and fuller, knowing that somewhere, in a drawer or a notebook or maybe even on the back of a napkin, more of Logan’s words were waiting for you—tangled, imperfect, but always from the heart.

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