My Vintage Soul | Poetry

I sat beneath a hazy moon,

its silver light pouring over me like memory.

The night was still—

not the kind of stillness that feels empty,

but the kind that holds you gently,

asks you to listen.

The only sounds were the hush of turning pages,

the soft psithurism of trees

telling stories in the dark,

and a distant river humming to itself

as if it, too, had something to remember.

I wasn’t chasing answers.

I was just there—

a book in my lap,

a heart slowly unwrapping.

I read like I used to,

without haste,

savoring every line like a sip of old wine.

Each word whispered home,

like vintage poetry tucked inside

a leather-bound book your grandmother left behind.

In that moment,

I was no longer of this frantic world.

The algorithms fell away.

The noise, the rush, the always-on…

vanished.

My soul,

my vintage soul,

curled up beside me like an old cat,

finally allowed to rest

in a world that had forgotten how.

And through that silence,

through that sacred slowness,

the words rose—

vintage poetry,

speaking not to the moment,

but to what is timeless in us all.