The Whiskey Taster’s Flavor Guide

Burn

I speak, you listen, but not the same,
your voice is warm, but feels so tamed.
Like every word is just a chore,
like I’m someone you knew before.
I text, you read, then let it die,
no need to answer, no need to try.
I call, you pick up, say you’re fine,
but never ask what’s on my mind.
I reach for you in quiet ways,
in words, in looks, in fleeting days.
But love can't bloom where hearts have turned,
so I just watch as bridges burn.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2025

Poem

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The Whiskey Taster’s Flavor Guide
Book: Diverse Voices: The Poetry of Human Rights and the Pursuit of Peace