How It Should Be

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By Anonymous

(Originally published on 10.5.2015)

Have you noticed how I linger now when we embrace?
How I press my face into your blouse and inhale,
fight the urge to take a chunk of your flesh between my teeth,
let it dissolve on my tongue?

Because you are where I
should be.

You are what I
should be, and

We is how it
should be.

When I leave,
[perhaps you notice this, too]
I don’t look back—
Won’t.
I set my jaw, pocket my fists, and march,
eyes always forward.

Is that what you do, too?

Projection

By Nicole Spangler

You told me you loved poetry. Stilted and sharp, staccato across the page. I obliged, corners and pages spilling over my shirt sleeves until I couldn’t tell where they ended and I began. I’d approach you later with a sore tongue, trying to smash your love into my obsession like they belonged together. In September you left for Grad school and I tried to give you poems that reminded me of you. There was a brief flicker in your eyes the moment I handed it to you, and it was there I realized you never liked poetry to begin with.

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Nicole writes because she has too many thoughts and too much free time.

Saccharine Sentiment

By Saturn Guo

often,
on cold summer nights,
i’m tethered
only by moonlight
and saccharine sentiment.
but she whispers,
“don’t go,”

so i
stay.

––––––––––
“(I write) to put fire in my veins, feel its warmth burn brightly until I implode.” – the poet

Heart Strings

By Arinda duPont

Pull the reins a little on my heart strings.
Wind my love song back into key.

A little strain is not a bad thing.
A loose cord won’t play the melody.

––––––––––
“I write for the same reason people smoke cigarettes. It’s not because it’s healthy. It might be because I think it looks cool. Mostly it’s because it’s cathartic, like exhaling with full lungs.” – the writer

Marriage Is Two People in Love Standing in the Same Bathroom

By Lisa Deng

In our case one of us is holding in a fart with his penis in his hands and the other is flashing herself in the mirror, checking for rot. “Do my eyelids look dry to you?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not paying attention,” she says as she slaps on creams and butters.

With open eyes, we kiss good night and she asks me to get on top of her with my whole weight and lie perfectly still. A rasp escapes from below.

“Are we connecting?”

“Yes.”

I hold her eyeballs until she is sure.

––––––––––
“I write to goof around.” – the writer

Never-was

By Aishwariya Laxmi

You were once my fevered dream
Now, you are my migraine
It must have happened over the many nights
I lay awake staring at the eerie shadows
The fan cast on the walls of my bedroom.
I’m not altogether surprised though
You and I would have never happened
Maybe that certainty is what kept us from happening
Weird are the ways of love that never was
The angst is real though
Even if you are just a broken dream in my head
You once were the promise of something
However shadowy and weak a promise
Pinky promises…
Heartbreaks. Heart Breaks.

––––––––––
“I write to get the feelings out.” – the writer

Valentine’s Birthday

By Lois Perch Villemaire

In 1893, birth records were not always accurate,
my grandfather Sam chose February 14
Why did he select it? To me, it was obvious,
Sam was the ultimate romantic.

He penned daily love notes in flowery script
to my grandmother and she saved them forever.

“Good morning my dearest sugar-plum!
I am most thankful to have you by my side
on this gorgeous morning. Who could ask for more?
I love you more each day with the greatest love!
Your lover-boy, Sammy”


Valentine’s Day? He celebrated every day.
To me, it was obvious,
Sam was the ultimate romantic.

––––––––––
“I write to record and remember.” – the writer

Another Web

By Phillip Knight Scott

Thin wisps of moonlight spin
a web in my window like dreams crocheted
into a blanket
securing me in this place
as I think

quiet thoughts of you —
a vision weightlessly buoyed by the moon —
a beacon
blazing only for me
here alone.

But mostly the soft outline of anticipation
traces my thoughts
down
not among the stars but
here where

the light of another day brightened by you
quickens my heartbeat —
a reminder
love finds us wherever
we lay down. 

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Phillip Knight Scott has been writing poetry since high school as a way to explore the world, life, and love. He hopes it makes the world a little more optimistic place.

To Waken Alone

By John Grey

Your memory’s network
expects something
but the opening of your eyes
delivers its exact opposite,

undisturbed sheets,
no hollow in the other pillow,
nothing breathing,

just a sun
as tired, as compromised,
as you are,
by the passage of time,

its light, harsh on your face,

or creeping across
the other side of the bed,
like a lizard
through the ruins of a temple.

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John Grey writes, he says, because, “it’s getting too painful not to.”