(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
You are what I
should be, and
We is how it
When I leave,
[perhaps you notice this, too]
I don’t look back—
I set my jaw, pocket my fists, and march,
eyes always forward.
Is that what you do, too?
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.
Nicole writes because she has too many thoughts and too much free time.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
By Saturn Guo
on cold summer nights,
only by moonlight
and saccharine sentiment.
but she whispers,
“(I write) to put fire in my veins, feel its warmth burn brightly until I implode.” – the poet
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
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?”
“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?”
I hold her eyeballs until she is sure.
“I write to goof around.” – the writer
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
Heartbreaks. Heart Breaks.
“I write to get the feelings out.” – the writer
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
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 —
blazing only for me
But mostly the soft outline of anticipation
traces my thoughts
not among the stars but
the light of another day brightened by you
quickens my heartbeat —
love finds us wherever
we lay down.
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.
By John Grey
Your memory’s network
but the opening of your eyes
delivers its exact opposite,
no hollow in the other pillow,
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.
John Grey writes, he says, because, “it’s getting too painful not to.”