r/tinyprose

So, the bumblebee
Returned happy —
After wandering just a bit too far.
*
He bizzed and buzzed
And spun around,
Drunk on clover and a shooting star.
*
He did a loop,
A joyful swoop,
Then tipped his fuzzy cap —
And fell asleep,
Without a peep,
Right inside my lap.
*
By morning light,
He stretched his wings,
And left a soft goodbye —
Then off he flew
Toward fields of gold,
Beneath the waking sky.
*
And watching him
Dance toward his honey,
I think I finally knew:
*
Some hearts may roam
The whole wide world —
Still searching home in two.

Worn wolf watches,

amber eyes

holding weather and years.

White mask marks,

dreams pass through pulled threads.

No tame cowardly reaction.

Negative. Ownership is mine.

Only known from deep rich past.

Being Quiet, Being patient,

be...coming

I am she.

Slightly edited bc I felt something deeper rise♡

Suspended in time,
like bloated fruit trapped in yellowing gelatin,
trembling beneath hospital light,
sweetness turning chemical at the edges.

Tick.

Tock.

Even stagnant things decay forward.
The soul squishes softly here,
caught
between seconds,
caught
between teeth.

Something swells behind the tear ducts,
heavier than grief,
until feeling itself turns liquid.

Tatters of self come drifting loose
in the thick syrup of memory,
pale skins peeling free,
brushing against each other
with the tenderness of dying things.

Past bleeds into future.

Future leaks backward.

Everything softens together
dissolving
into one glistening pulp.

Love becomes difficult to distinguish from hunger.
The heart,
blind and feverish,
keeps twitching for warmth
inside the cold suspension.

Somewhere in the gelatinous dark,
something still opens its mouth,
wanting to be loved
before it liquefies completely.

That bumblebee,
Returned to me —
The very next day.
*
His dusty body,
Still warm and fuzzy —
His honey was far away.
*
He bounced through air,
Without a care —
Like sunshine learned to fly.
*
Then on my thumb,
A sudden hum —
A tiny, silky sigh.
*
He didn’t speak,
Or make a peep —
But still, I understood:
*
Some hearts must roam,
And buzz alone —
Just searching for the good.

A boy and a girl set out to play,
Hand in hand,
they laughed all day.

Until the sun became the moon—
All of a sudden,
goodbye came too soon.

They didn’t fret,
they held no worry,
For both well knew, there was no hurry.

Tomorrow would rise
to greet them again,
Picking up
right where they left off then.

They locked their eyes,
a silent pair,
With quiet smiles
in the midnight air.

The stars hung low
with a softened glow,
They watched
the purple shadows grow.

As if the morning already waited.
The summer twilight gently faded.

One last squeeze,
One shy “please”—
“I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

A bumble bee,
Sat on my knee —
Dreaming about his honey.

He looked at me,
With total glee —
His fuzzy coat all sunny.

With fluttering wings,
His small heart sings —
And up his body goes.

A swoosh and a woosh,
A zip and a push —
Away to the fields he blows.

He didn’t say,
A word that day —
But left me to wonder apart:

Would you be
the one for she —
To softly cherish her heart?

​

Love me now

while I am here...

not later when memory softens my edges

Into something easier to hold.

Not aching through old photographs,

unfinished conversations,

wondering could haves ,& should haves.

Love me now,

while my laughter still fills rooms,

while my hands can still reach for yours,

across crowded tables and quiet mornings alike.

Do not wait until absence.

Do not build altars from regret.

Sit beside me...

the coffee is still warm.

Tell me the truth...

I can still hear it.

Choose tenderness...

time is a theif and

Tends to steals chances entirely.

Because love...

is not dressed in mourning.

Its dressed lavishly

lived loudly,

And is imperfectly, beautiful.

Love me me now.

While we are still here.

Vivacious voice valueing veracity, valor, and victory; vicariously vacationing via visionary vibrations, volume, and virtue.

Morning, check list

Heat pressing against leg

Chest raises, falls

Velvet, damp touches skin

As I reach

stroke the fur

Behind their ear

Chocolate pools

Returning my gaze

A tickle, a wag,

A sigh, a smile

Still have time

The funny thing is,
I thought I was writing about her.

Rain.
Flowers.
Soft little moments
I could tuck inside poems
without admitting
what was actually happening to me.

But those poems were never about romance.

They were symptoms.

A burnt-out chef
checking if anything inside him
still bled warm.

The shut down happened decades ago.

She was a doctor.
Audrey Hepburn in scrubs.
Two souls interwoven.
Until —
She cheated. I stayed.
Then —
Every Christmas present felt like pity.
Birthdays — pfft.
I turned to my kitchen.
And went to work.
Eventually, I worked her out of my life, too.

Every relationship after that
ran the same script:

Show up.
Say the right shit.
Don’t get attached.
Fuck.
Leave something sweet in the morning.
Go to work.

Function. Produce. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Feelings became inefficiencies.
Tenderness became liability.
Loneliness became routine.

And honestly?
Routine works.

So —
You repeat until you can do it blindfolded.

You forget.

Until somebody soft
walks into your head
and starts turning lights back on.

That’s when shit gets real.
Like,
Really real.

Not with her.
With me.

Because the poet came back hungry.
He was the little bastard who scored us the doctor.

And the chef hated him for it.

So now the chef
Hated how every laugh
sounded like hope.
Hated how words started spilling out again.
Hated catching himself caring.

The poems got prettier
while my head got uglier.

That’s the part nobody sees.

I wasn’t writing love poems.

I was documenting
emotional rigor mortis wearing off.

Real ugly shit, too.

Like blood returning to a frozen hand.
Pain first.
Then feeling.

And every line
was the sound of two men fighting inside me:

One saying,
“Shut it down before it ruins us.”

The other saying,
“I’d rather feel something than survive forever.”

The worst part?

I still don’t know which one was right.