Poetry Sample: By the Bedside

By the Bedside

I remember the night you told me you didn’t love me anymore.

It was 2:38 in the morning, and we were both wide awake.
The fan hummed, the radiator clanged,
but I could still hear you breathe perfectly.
The room was dark, yet I saw your eyes scanning the ceiling,
searching for a word, a phrase,
anything to make this goodbye a little less painful.

It didn’t.

I remember your voice, how it shook—
an earthquake with no warning.
A simple Hey, whispered between the sheets and by the bedside,
was enough to turn my stomach inside out.
My hands trembled like your voice,
like the radiator,
rattling in the silence.

And I wondered—could you hear them too?

I remember your chest when you said you wanted to talk,
how it rose and fell with such urgency
that I found myself mirroring its rhythm.
Your heartbeat pressed against your skin,
as if it wanted out,
as if it longed to tell me itself.

Sometimes, I wish it had.

I remember the snow, how it fell against the window,
gathering in quiet surrender.
As you spoke, I wondered—was this us?
Were we like the snow, building up on the sill,
only for one of us to crumble first?

Or had you already fallen, long before this night?

I remember thinking of our first kiss as you spoke—
six in the morning, a city still asleep.
Your hands held my face, fingertips warming my ears,
your lips both soft and certain.
And for a moment, I wished I were caught between your fingers again,
held there just a little longer.

But that night, I believe my heart and cheeks switched places,
and with every passing minute,
you squeezed a little tighter.

I remember the way you told me—
slowly, yet all at once.
Your words slipped across my skin,
wrapped around my neck,
and though I knew what was coming,
I could not react in time.

When it was over, we lay in silence on your bed.
It was 2:49.
Those were the longest eleven minutes I have ever known.

I remember how you hugged me after.
Your heart still pounded, and as you held me,
it carved its shape into my chest.
Even now, on nights I stay awake too long,
I can still feel it there,
beating against my skin,
as if you never let go.

A friend told me today that scars fade with time.
I wonder if that’s true.

I remember the drive home the next morning—
eight hours, seven missed calls from my mother,
five unread texts from you,
three hours before I stopped crying.

I remember glancing at the dashboard,
at a picture of us.

But who were they?

They looked so happy.

I remember that.