Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Richard LeDue

January Again

Lonely as a corner
where there used to be a Christmas tree,
and the musicless silence
a reminder of every goodbye
that passed
before there was even
a hello.


Empty Rooms Seducing Them With Silence

Everyone’s still existing
through the loneliest age:

sleeping back to back
with separate blankets,
dreaming of twin beds,

smiling more at empty rooms,
seducing them with silence,
than each other,

falling in love with pictures
of people they’ll never meet,
only to forget them
when they find a funny cat meme,

hoping for stagnation
by never growing old,
when there’ll be no one to even pretend
they’re listening,

and believing poems like this
have nothing to do with them.



A banged up book is like a person
who refuses to give up
on love:

dogeared pages past breakups,

coffee stains forgivable
because at least they remind us
of the kind of reckless passion that bites lips
when it was supposed to be a kiss,

a creased cover turning off
those who still expect to marry
a brand new bestseller,
although they’re 40
and read the instructions aloud
of cat food to empty rooms,

and the inscription,
scribbled in messy cursive,
clearly never meant for us,
yet we still like to pretend
it was.

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