The Department of Structured Calm

Loving you is bittersweet

Original Poem by @thriftygirl365

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Loving you is bittersweet
like dark chocolate melting slowly on the tongue
A tenderness that lingers
even when the night feels long
Your name drifts through my thoughts
like smoke in winter air
A warmth I chase, a shadow
I can never quite ensnare
You are the soft ache
in a half-remembered song
A pulse beneath silence
steady and strong
I taste your absence
like salt along the shore
A craving that returns
asking only for more
Your touch is a promise
that trembles but doesn’t break
A spark that glows gently
for longing’s sake
In every heartbeat I hear
your quiet, steady drum
And find myself yearning
for a sweetness that never comes

Original Poem by Laura J Alexander

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Speak to me softly
Ever, so gently
Let your gentle voice
Be a sweet lullaby
The one that helps
Me sleep soundly, all through the night
Hold me, in your sacred warmth
Love me, in metaphors
Paint my dreams
The colour of your love
Let us meet somewhere
In the astral plane
To continue this sacred
Holy, eternal encounter
Let sleep not be
That which separates us
For you, and I will never part I will meet you
Somewhere between
Unconsciousness, where
Souls again unite and are free.

Written by Chicandchillingreads

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I love unmade hearts,
and bedrooms that look like the inside of a Sunday mind—
sheets kicked to the floor, books spined open,
a half‑finished cup of tea still wearing someone’s lipstick.

I love 3 a.m. kitchens,
when someone is drunk enough to cry into the sink
and honest enough to tell you why.
Mascara rivers, shaking hands on chipped mugs,
the way they apologize for “being a mess”
while accidentally showing you the most beautiful thing about them.

I love the look in someone’s eyes
the split‑second they realize they’re in love—
that startled, soft panic, like they’ve just remembered
where they left their whole life,
and it’s standing right in front of them.

I love morning faces,
creased with pillow lines and dreams not yet folded away.
Hair a rebellion, voice still half asleep,
the moment before they remember their name tags
and passwords and practiced smiles.
For a breath, they belong only to themselves.

I love the gasp in a crowded cinema
when a favorite character dies—
that sharp collective inhale,
hands flying to mouths, popcorn forgotten,
because for one heartbeat
everyone in the room is grieving the same ghost.

I love the people on trains
staring out of windows with headphones in,
eyes unfocused, somewhere else entirely.
The ones mouthing lyrics,
the ones smiling at nothing,
the ones blinking too fast
because they almost cried in public and caught themselves.

I fall in love with people
in waiting rooms and supermarket aisles,
the ones who drop a jar and laugh at themselves,
who talk to babies in line behind them,
who say “you go ahead”
like it costs them nothing and somehow gives them back time.

I love friends sitting on bathroom floors at parties,
passing a roll of toilet paper like a sacred offering,
saying, “Tell me everything,”
while someone in a glitter dress admits
they don’t know who they are without being “the fun one.”

I love breakdowns in parked cars,
music turned up too loud to hide the sobs
but not loud enough to stop them.
The way someone grips the steering wheel
like it’s the only solid thing left,
and still finds the strength to say, “I’m scared,”
as if fear isn’t already written in the fog on the windows.

I love smeared lipstick at 2 a.m.,
shoes dangling from tired fingers,
the walk home where laughter and silence
take turns carrying the weight of the night.

I love the way people close their eyes
when a song hits the exact scar it was written for,
how their lips move around a chorus
they didn’t know they remembered,
how they look a little more themselves
with every word they don’t have to explain.

I love daydream faces—
the student staring past the teacher,
the barista zoning out between orders,
the old man on a park bench
smiling at something only he can see.
It’s like watching someone step through a door
in the middle of ordinary air.

I fall in love with people and their honest moments
all the time.
The way they fiddle with ring bands when they’re about to tell the truth.
The way their voice cracks on the word “actually.”
The way they look down at their hands
after admitting, “I’m not okay.”

I love chipped nail polish,
coffee stains on favorite books,
text messages that say “made it home”
and “sorry I vanished, my brain was loud.”
I love every tiny confession
that says, “Here is who I really am
when I think no one is grading me.”

Honesty is the way someone exhales
when they think no one is listening.
It’s the laugh that snorts,
the hug that lasts one second too long,
the trembling “I missed you”
at the doorstep after years of pretending otherwise.

Honesty is the moment the mask slips
and instead of shattering,
the whole person finally comes into focus.

Language will never be wide enough
for how beautiful we are
when we stop performing
and simply exist—
unmade, unedited,
perfect in all the ways
we’re still trying to hide.

Written by TheBenjamin

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Not the honest kind that gleam in a mouth,
but the soft, invisible kind
that close around a thought
before it can form a sound.
It starts with a pause at the edge of speech,
a word you almost say,
then swallow.
The quiet thickens, attentive,
like something crouching just beyond the lamp.
In that hush, every heartbeat
sounds like footsteps in the attic.
You begin counting them,
to prove they are yours
and not someone pacing overhead.
The walls forget how to echo you.
Your reflection moves a fraction late,
lips shaping the sentence
you were too cautious to release.
You watch it finish speaking
in the glass.
The silence is patient.
It files itself on your nerves,
gnaws the corners of memory
you have pushed behind furniture,
drags them into the open
one creak at a time.
Soon, you can hear it breathing
between your heartbeats,
a cold inhale under every exhale,
as if the room is tasting
what you are trying not to feel.
You press your hands over your ears,
but it only sharpens the sound.
inside your skull:
your own voice, rearranged, whispering the things
you hoped no one would ever say aloud.
By the time the lights go out,
you understand.
There is no empty room,
no lurking stranger.
Only the quiet you fed for years
with unsaid apologies, unfinished fears,
now smiling in the dark,
closing its careful jaws
around what is left of you.

Original Poem by Freya Ironside

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Will you want me when you know
I live most days in sweats?
Will you like me when I show
My small, imperfect bits?

Will you want me when you see
I’m moody, brash or slow?
Will you desire the rest of this,
Not just the parts I show?

Will you want me when you learn
I’m not running away?
Will you be able to love me too
Long after we’ve gone grey?

I want the parts of you
No one gets to see.
And cherish them whole,
Keep you just for me.