This month’s writing prompt was Longing. Here we showcase our favourite responses for the month of Valentine’s.
Longing prompt: The reach of a hand in hopes it’ll find another. The treacherous heartache of unrequited love. We all have desires and yearnings, and it’s when these all consuming compulsions are met with challenges and sometimes disappointment that we feel the unbearable ache of their distance. From relationships overseas to an unreachable dreamscape, we all long for something, even if we know we can never touch it.
I Love You More Than A Friend (Part 2)
I think I’m in love with him.
I love him and he responds with saccharine sincerity
‘I love you too’
I don’t know the Genesis but
I really believe I’m in love with him
I minimised it in 2019
Told him I had a fleeting crush
But unlike the days…
It’s the consistency for me
I settle for deep Beyond Friendship
It’s not settling because something from above must have sent him
Kind, Gentle, Loving, Effortlessly Caring, A Cheeky Chuckle With An Experienced
Rasp
Not to mention a Big Heart and His Music, His Art
I pray this affliction passes
I know he will never be able to reciprocate my weighted glances
No matter how many chances
I write him Love Songs I call essays
Confessions I call expressions of platonic gratitude
Words laced with temptation
But I’m not a seductress
Everything about him is an Aphrodisiac
But he doesn’t understand my Afrodisiac
I sent him I Love You More Than A Friend three years ago
Then it was about someone else
Not to get too ekphrastic but time is beautifully transformative
Healing wounds
Exposing truths once shrouded in deflection, sassy inflections and loud declarations
I will move on
Even though when I moved, we grew dangerously and excitingly closer
234.6 miles couldn’t do it
I doubt that 224 can
I hope he meets someone when he travels. I pray that she has beautiful almond skin, rose coloured eyes and hair long enough to sweep him off his feet. I hope she homes honey at the intersection of her thighs. Sweet enough to send his rushing blood to paradise. I hope he tells me all about the dive as I wrap my hands around my dark waist pretending that they’re his. Then… maybe… I’ll move on.
I know.
I’m in love with you.
by Efe Imoyin-Omene (@Emoefeoghene Instagram, @EfeImoyin Twitter)
Every night
After Letitia Jiju
The wash of light silvers your fingernails;
every moon their ghost —
& my answer: love is but the sink-weight
of wanting and waiting.
Cornerstone freefalling in deep, dark blue —
I have wanted you,
in the buoyancy of that unknowing.
&
you have loved me —
A trade
for all that creeps up our white of bone.
I, patient for how you unfurl in the night,
hung my petal-mouth open, shriveled.
I, syruped by you, sapped oak-aspen-birch.
A hook, an eye, betrothed
like a wedding at a church.
What we must make of this forever time, its swift-footed spindling.
Somewhere, the clock spun
our five-fingered minutes & years
into sugared gold.
We erupted into each other —
how we must forge our jeweling binds
in gratitude.
My prayer: let us share, this night, a table.
by Sabeeha Khan (@estuary.me Instagram, @burnitlikecedar Twitter)
Nightwalk
You arrive at my door on campus, never arranged but not quite unexpected, since that first time you knocked and asked me for a nightwalk. I feel like I always sleep with one ear open since that night. When I wake, I wonder if I missed you. I wonder if you came, and I didn’t wake and you wondered if I wasn’t there. If I was with someone else.
I never was.
I dress quickly and carelessly because it will be dark. I throw off my slumber feeling as easily as smiling. I don’t plan to do it, it’s just there when you are. Even though you never touch me, your presence thrums in me. I pull on my jacket and leave my room to find you waiting in the corridor.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Where?’
‘Just around.’
I’d go anywhere with you. I don’t want you to know it, but I’m sure you know it. That’s why you turn up at my door midweek when everyone else is sleeping. You know I won’t say no. Maybe you can’t sleep, maybe I’m a drug to you. Only of the sleeping kind.
We’re outside, walking one foot apart. You lead the way. I remember when we first met, I went back to your room, drunk, and we debated, and I thought something I wasn’t ready for was going to happen. But it didn’t. Instead, you told me you would never make a move on me. Never. You’d wait for me to tell you what I want. You told me you have a girlfriend. I told you I have a boyfriend. From that night on, I wished I didn’t until I didn’t. I don’t know what you wish, but if it’s for me you don’t wish it enough.
It’s summertime, but it’s late enough to be dark so we can hide our faces. I want you to stop and come close enough I can look into your eyes, but you won’t. You don’t.
We’re heading out onto the sports fields, hugging the perimeter where shrubs and trees obscure us from eyes that aren’t even there. I can feel we’re alone, but being alone with you is the furthest thing from being alone I know. It’s a constant clamouring. You stand a head taller than me. I stop and stare up at the side of your face, dark stubble just showing. I want to reach out and touch it, feel the rough and smooth of you, touch all of you. I want you to tell me you want me. I want you to say you don’t care about her enough to stop. I want you to take my jaw in your hand, I know it will fit exactly. At that moment, it’s all I am able to think.
‘Why did you stop? Are you tired? Are you cold?’
‘No.’
‘Are you looking at the moon?’
And then I am, gazing at her majesty, bathing in her cool light. I welcome the distraction of something larger and more powerful than whatever this is between us. But I am not a tide, and if the moon controls my thoughts she does it insidiously. Are you looking at the planes of my face, at the glint of the heavens in my eyes? You step between me and her, placing both of our faces in shadow and, for a moment, we are close. Almost as close as I want us to be, until you take one more step, turn and look up, matching my stance.
‘It’s beautiful.’ I wait. I want you to say it. I’m not looking up at her anymore, I’m looking up at you. I see your eyes flick in my direction and then flick away. I don’t stop.
‘Why did you bring me out here?’
‘Do you want to go back?’
‘No. Do you?’ I’m praying you don’t say yes.
‘Not yet. I like walking at night. I thought you might like it, too. It’s quieter, you can really think.’
‘Do you need me with you to think?’
‘No, you don’t help me to think. Can’t I just want some company? You know I like to have you around.’ But do I? You never show me you do.
‘Come on.’ I walk off to the shadow of the tree’s canopy and back up against its trunk.
‘Actually, I am cold.’ I’m not.
‘Do you want my jacket?’ I don’t, but I want you to take it off so I nod, and then say, ‘maybe just for a minute.’ I want to feel it around me, get you closer to my pores, steep in your scent. You’re wearing a t-shirt underneath, and I want to reach out and lay my hand on your chest to feel the evidence of the heart I want to believe resides there, but you hold out your jacket so I step away from the coarse bark and allow you to guide it around my arms. For a moment I feel your hands on my shoulders and I lean back. You don’t move, and our bodies are finally touching. Your chin is on top of my head, my shoulder blades rest on your torso.
‘Kate.’ Your voice has changed to another man’s but it’s still you. I’d know you anywhere, your presence is singular.
‘Yes.’ Nobody else calls me Kate. I want you to nuzzle your face into my hair and feel your breath excite my follicles. I want you to kiss my neck in a way that leaves me in no doubt of the effect I have on you. I want to feel your hands glide over my breasts. I want you to lift me up and push me back against the tree that shelters us.
‘Kate, what are we doing?’
‘I thought we were taking a nightwalk. And watching the moon.’ I would be watching the moon right now if my eyes weren’t closed.
‘You know what I mean. You know what I said. You just have to tell me.’ I just have to tell you I want you and you’ll kiss me, I know it, you won’t just kiss me you’ll lay me down in the dew-touched grass at the edge of this field… and for time stretched seconds my mind is lost in a dream of everything that could be. If I could just not care for this one moment that you have a girlfriend you will go back to when the term ends.
If I could just say that I do want you.
I stay silent.
The moon is covered by the clouds and your hands return to my shoulders to support me while you step back. I know you’ll let go and we’ll walk back without another word. I take a half step to balance myself, so I won’t fall when you take your hands away. I take a lung – deep breath of your scent and hold it. Somehow, I’m already falling when you draw back, still falling when I slip your jacket from my body to hand back to you. I wish you were watching me but you’re looking off to the side again.
I stop falling, only to remain suspended.
by Katie Willow (@Dryadula, Twitter)
LONGING FOR YOU
Longing for you is like waiting for night to fall. It’s the crude colour of the sky before she is swallowed.
Longing for you is this black; the drowning in unkempt water; the temptation of dying, the way it keeps eating at me. I’m sure I’ll be gone by morning.
Longing for you is bathing in petrol; choking on my own spit; flicking matches; watching them burn until my fingers are blistered and black.
Longing for you is a hole in my stomach, big enough to reach my fist through.
Longing for you is dangling; a thread; a tooth; a pair of scissors; waiting to be cut; a mouthful of blood and a cavity I can no longer fill.
by Jane Paul (@___janepaul Instagram)
Let Me
Let me lie behind you,
still
and without oil or smell.
Dark treading I remember,
and earth
on my hands,
the vegetable touch
that soiled, sealed,
the rain
that beat our bond
to a slide of
mud.
Let me lie behind you
as you sleep,
and breathe my silence
on that clean,
unquiet lobe.
I will keep you from rolling
on your back into the cold light;
I will not let the streetlamp
at the window
awaken you.
by Francesca Leader (@moon.in.a.bucket Instagram, @mooninabucket Twitter)
Untitled
I dream anywhere
the curl of her hair
the curve of her neck
it’s as easy as breathing
as easy as grieving
a life i did not have.
I do more than just miss you
a memory of a memory
or something in between
we were two lone dancers
in a sky flung apart.
by Andromeda (@ohwildes, Instagram)
Rolling Over to Smile
I’m lucky that I get up first.
Otherwise,
I’d miss the sight of my
sleeping beauty that doesn’t yet see me. She sleeps peacefully,
and it’s next to me.
Lucky aren’t we?
A pair of souls that get to
hold each other close.
My most peaceful moments are with you
and from the groggy eyed, soft smile
painted on your face—yours are mine.
I love I get to roll over in the morning
and smile.
by Tyler Jones
Handkerchief
I long to be more than your friend
Something more intimate and closest to your heart
I wish I could lend my being to you
Wound myself around your heart
Making your life sweeter than honey
I desire to make you feel warmth
Warmth that envelops the body and numbs the senses
Like love’s flames that engulf the heart in unbridled passion
I wish I could be what you reach out for at night
I wish I were your handkerchief
That dainty satin work of art
That piece of fabric you keep between breast and brassier on hot days
I wish I could dry your tears when you weep
And wipe your sweat when you toil
I wish I could crown your head when you pray
And spread myself soaked across your forehead, praying
That your fever will break
I wish I was your handkerchief
To pat your rosy cheeks
And fill your mind with beautiful memories
But alas!
I am just the friend-turned-stranger
The would-be-lover you forgot at the junction of adolescence.
by Cornerlis Kweku Affre (@cornerlis, Twitter)
From the Outside
Sometimes you want to cry out in frustration. Sometimes you want to cry out in joy.
And then there are times you want to cry out in boredom.
Being part of The Four Boys Club is somewhat like that; especially for an outsider, like me. Well, maybe I’m being too harsh on myself – and by extension the others – by calling myself that. They’ve never given me a reason to think I’m not one of them, nor do they think any less of me.
But they’re just not… How should I put it? I don’t connect with them. When you’re 15, you’re looking for something like that in the friends you make, don’t you? People who are like-minded, who can relate to you, who… get you.
At times, I feel like these guys just don’t.
It’s not like we are inseparable. I mean, all of us have friends outside the four of us. We do live our separate lives. As a matter of fact, I have closer friends at school. With them I’ve taken trips, gone to the movies, partied after school.
The most interesting activity in the three years I’ve been part of The Four Boys Club we’ve done is…
You ready? Because this gets exciting.
The most interesting activity we’ve done is gone to the mall. Exhilarating stuff, right? The mall, where we split a chicken burger from McDonald’s four ways because, guess what, Shanky had been put on a fast by his mum and Bandem didn’t want to spend money. I wanted to ask them what they had dragged me to the mall for; and I almost would have, had it not been for Mompy.
I don’t know why Mompy chooses to be part of this group. He is an overall fun guy. Funny. Cultured; at least he is aware, and not living under a rock like the other two. He doesn’t even mind the occasional swearing – being on, both, the giving and the receiving end of it.
You should have seen Shanky’s nonplussed reaction when, while the four of us were playing a game of carrom the summer before last, I screamed a profanity into Mompy’s face. Mompy hit a white coin – he and I had black – into the pocket. Let’s just say I called him a vulgar word for incompetent. It was in jest, of course; two friends just joshing around.
But, two days later, I learned Shanky had approached Mompy and tried to persuade him into how he, Mompy, should bring the matter up to his parents. Like we are a group of seven or eight year olds who find “bad” words offensive.
What a sad club it is, right?
Honestly, I just feel bored.
And I probably was staring into an even more boring two weeks last winter break, when Mompy was out of town with his parents. The Cool Dad, as we all called Mompy’s father, took his family for a nice little vacation to the beach to beat the cold. I didn’t want to be around Shanky and Bandem without Mompy around. The two are supposedly the oldest friends in the group – going back a decade from what I know – and yet you can’t mistake the awkwardness between them when they hang out together.
I don’t know where the awkwardness stems from; or even why it does. But, if you’ve seen the two of them playing cricket with each other in Shanky’s large veranda, you would agree they’re like an old married couple who, after spending almost an eternity together, are now out of things to say and just co-existing.
My dad, who they all call The Fat Dad (which won’t be inaccurate but is highly unfair), often asked me to go hang out with Bandem that winter.
Bandem’s dad had bought him a computer, and Mompy and Shanky would play games on it. Shanky already had a video game console, and, before the computer arrived in Bandem’s household, the three would spend their weekends at Shanky’s; trying to outrival each other in Mario or Contra. So, essentially, all they had done was evolve from playing the same games on a television screen to a computer.
God, they’re like children.
I didn’t want to go to Bandem’s, honestly. The sad, almost depressing atmosphere in his house is suffocating. I don’t know why I feel that way whenever I step in his house. Maybe it is the rather obvious sense of resentment between his family hanging in the air, like a thick fog; between him and his parents, between him and his sister (who went off to college the next year). It is the kind of resentment that is well-hidden between layers of other pretentious emotions; all the fake laughs, fake smiles, fake joy.
Bandem isn’t happy with his family, you can see it. I even said this to Shanky one day, but he denied it outright. “I’ve known him and his family for ten years. It can’t be true,” he said.
I would have kicked myself laughing at that. The two are probably the worst ten year long friends.
But I did go to Bandem’s. Not because I couldn’t say no to my dad, for there have been many times I’ve defied him, but for a reason I haven’t been able to ever entirely comprehend.
The thing is, he worries about Bandem; has even asked me quite a few times if things are okay with him. My dad calls Bandem a “hopeful romantic”; and when I asked if he meant hopeless, my dad just smiled at me. When I told him, my dad, that as far as I knew Bandem has never had a girlfriend, he just ruffled my hair in what I thought was a you-have-a-lot-to-learn gesture.
Bandem and I played Road Rash on his then new computer that winter.
Shanky wasn’t around. I may sound like a bad friend, but I suppose I was secretly glad he wasn’t.
Oh, to be young and have complicated (sometimes difficult, sometimes even tiresome) friendships. We’ve all been there, haven’t we?
by Shaurya Arya (@main.hoon.ek.sharara Instagram, @shauryaticks Twitter)
Eternal Longing
You’re leaving this town in September.
I’m leaving this town in October.
November will pass quietly.
Your longing will visit me in December
.
I couldn’t give you anything on your birthday.
You gave me longing.
This longing brightens up my eyes.
This longing gave me butterflies.
This longing is the reason why I dance
alone at midnight.
You gave me longing.
But I couldn’t give you anything on your birthday.
We don’t need to talk for hours.
I have your infinite longing.
It reminds me of your melody.
We don’t have to be lovers.
I have your eternal longing.
It reminds me yellow is your favourite colour.
You’re leaving this town in September.
I’m leaving this town in October.
November will look pale.
But I Shall cherish your longing in December.
by Inner Monologue (@inner__monolgue__ Instagram)
Forbidden
I cannot drive the
thoughts of you
from my mind.
You inhabit my dreams,
unsafe refuge of
night’s unrest.
by David Nobes
Longing
Like the cylinder of ashes
when a cigarette is lit
then forgotten, like the slight
ruby tinge of unwashed wine
glasses, or the barest trace
of your scent on the sheets,
like the paper-cut sting
of brusque words
when you said good-bye,
the palest ghost of what was
and what wasn’t
haunts me sometimes.
I wanted to love that person,
the one I wished you were,
but I hadn’t yet learned how—
and you weren’t.
by Cynthia Bernard (@CynBernard53 Twitter)
SYCAMORE
I realised this autumn I’ve been away from my hometown
long enough to become a stranger here.
Take me back to the harbour where we jumped
off the slipway and into the water to follow the seals.
I am standing on the same seafront fifteen years later and
can taste the nostalgia for who we were one August night
in the corner of a ramshackle bar that no longer exists,
somewhere the doors closed so long ago that I don’t know if anyone
remembers it was ever there –
that we were there, eighteen and drunk on possibility.
I have never wanted so badly to claim a place as mine,
wanted to carve our history into the soft bark of sycamores
planted in every park that holds our memory, just so
something will remember we happened.
I want to tattoo the coordinates over my hands like a homing beacon
that will bring me back to you when I am old and have forgotten
everything except that this is important.
I want to be buried in the roots of something that will
outlive us, want teenagers to come here and make stupid promises
they can’t keep, I want to be in every helicopter seed and flame patterned leaf
they carry home and press into diaries. I want someone, anyone, to carry a piece
of everything that could have been and everything that we keep silent, even now.
But this autumn I want to believe that you have
stood here too, on this seafront with the tourists and the townies, and
thought back to that summer when everything felt limitless.
That you followed the second road on the left,
up the hill and past the boarded-up window,
mind spinning with memories and leaves.
by Leah Atherton (@poet_on_the_run Instagram)
SMALL MEANINGLESS THINGS
I’ve been relying on some small meaningless things
Like the rainbow chocolate sprinkles
Or the red little popsicles
Bigger things scare me
Mostly it requires changing and moving
While smaller things can just be themselves
I don’t need to take further actions
I don’t need to think about the future
They feed me, it is what it is
Longing for something bigger is a luxury
I don’t have
I don’t want to do
Because it means I need to wake up and move
I’ve longing for some small meaningless things
I take them for granted
They serve me, no action needed
by Miladiyah Z (@ilakshta Instagram)
When Love Wins
Are there any rules about who you fall in love with? Is it a crime to love a royal prince? I thought love is natural and can’t be forced or bought just like happiness? Then, why is our love forbidden? Is it because I’m less privileged, non-royalty, and a commoner?
Adụre wants answers and she’s ready to go to length in getting an answer. Her lips birth a sigh, staring at the man who will put her into consideration first before his. She curls her hands around his waist, her head leaning on his shoulder as the throbbing heart of his wraps around her. She can hear its painful rhymes.
“Adụre, let’s get away from here—this kingdom, to a faraway land.” Adụre lifts her gaze to match with his. Those deep-set black eyes which had lured her. His eyes hold unexpressed emotions bottled up inside him. The pain beneath his voice makes her shiver. Running away with Obinna sounds like a good plan but who’ll rule the kingdom? The absence of the crown prince will cause an uproar. It will make enemies leap to action; to make sure the current king leaves earlier than thought. No! She doesn’t want it and can not bargain for any of that. If only Obinna was the king, It would have been much better for both of them.
“That is far more dangerous to leave the kingdom—”
“Then stay with me. Let’s get married and rule the kingdom together,” Obinna mumbles. She straightens and stares at him.
Easier said than done.
The king will be against it, just as he was against their relationship right from day one. Adụre could remember when the king had threatened to give out the throne to his brother if he didn’t marry princess Amara. Adụre shifts closer still sitting on the fallen tree trunk which had become dry. The chirping birds permeating around them seem to scent their sadness, their sorrow. Hence, singing in a language she can’t describe like they’re comforting them; telling them everything will be alright. She leans her head on his shoulder again and her hands not leaving his waist. His ebony skin soothes her. It makes her stomach flutter.
“Obi m, my heart you are betrothed to princess Amara. If you love me, marry her and rule the kingdom with her.” two soft palms cup her chin. She shudders at the touch.
“Why will I do that?” he asks, brushing his fingers against her nape. Adụre hears her heart hammering. Her feet become wobble at the touch. She’s surprised, she does not fall.
“I stood no chance—”
“Don’t say that.” a low growl emits from him. It’s the truth and they can’t change it. The universe isn’t on their side.
Prince Obinna knows he stands no chance of winning his father’s heart in accepting Adụre. He loves her but why can’t they see it? He wishes he can execute what is on his mind right now. On the other hand, it will cause further complications or even tag him a rebel. He scurries to his hut, built with red mud. Sculptures of wild animals and drawings inscribed on them. The roof was made of palm fronds which sheltered them from any elements. Prince Obinna sees his father—the king on his throne. A small thatched rooftop palm fronds hut which he used as his throne room. He veers towards the next direction when his father’s voice stalks him.
“Where are you coming back from, Obinna?” Prince Obinna halts, not bothering to glance at him.
“None of your business.” he’s surprised his father does not growl at his harsh tone. But it isn’t his concern right now.
“Princess Amara was here earlier.” his eyes hold a blazing inferno as he advances toward his father. Fist clenches. If a look could kill, his father would have been six feet below!
“How many times will I make it clear I don’t and would never love her!” he arches at his father’s silence. Surprisingly, he senses his smile.
“You’re getting married to her tomorrow whether you love her or not.” he gasps as his breath becomes heavy and shallow. It is too early and he isn’t expecting it.
He would rather die than marry Princess Amara.
Adụre feels grateful the sun is smiling today. Its crouching intensity isn’t prickling on her skin. She clutches her Udu—a clay pot—as other girls who pass by give her a look of pity, of disbelief. She has been swimming in the ocean of daze at each look given to her. Adụre returns home and lowers her udu inside the kitchen. “Adụre, are you not going to the palace?” her mother asks, the moment she comes out from the kitchen.
“Mama, what’s up with everyone’s weird looks and excitement?”
“Today is the prince’s marriage—”
“The prince’s what, Mama?” her mother shrugs, holding her shoulder.
“You have to let him go, Adụre. The gods will provide—” Adụre is gone.
Adụre sprints toward the palace, panting. The news comes as a shock to her. She continues her race as she has begun to hear the drums, gongs, and flute playing right before she can see the palace itself. Adụre advances toward the crowd, squeezing her way to the front. A big day for the kingdom but it isn’t for her. She feels drained. The marriage rite had been taken before she arrived. It makes her want to release those tears in her eyes. Her hair stands erect. Adụre lifts her gaze which locks into his. She sees guilt, pain, and his eyes hold an apology and unexpressed emotions willing to ripple out from his chest.
Adụre sniffs, daubing out the tears on her eyes. She dashes out of the palace. She will rather die than watch her lover get married under her nose. She hears crouching feet behind her. Adure stops and at that moment, a pair of hands wrap around her.
“Please, don’t go,” Prince Obinna says, clutching her to himself. She melts away from the pain in his voice. The prince’s action has put him on the edge even if he doesn’t know it. His father may reject him for running after her.
What will the kingdom think of them? Rebellious people? Maybe more than that.
“What will we do? you have scattered the marriage your father fought hard to build—” Prince Obinna places his hand on her lips and leads her back to the palace. Adụre becomes nervous, her hands become sweaty despite locking their hands with the prince.
Everyone is watching when they arrive. Gurgle drones the entire air. The drums, flute, and gong have stopped as they return. Everyone is watching. Some hold looks of contempt, resentment, and disgust but she doesn’t care.
“Princess Amara approved of my relationship with Adụre. We love each other, can’t you see it?” Prince Obinna says to the silent crowd. Adụre wishes the ground can swallow her right away from the embarrassment she is getting but the ground can’t hear her wish.
“Obinna, leave that girl and continue with the marriage rite now!” a voice barks from the throne room. Adụre watches as the king storm out, his eyes blazing a furnace, vein visible, and standing out on his neck. Adụre wants to cower at the look but the prince’s grip on her was firm.
“If what I said isn’t right, I will leave Adụre and continue with this marriage.” Has the prince run mad? He keeps doing the unimaginable. What if Princess Amara changed her mind?
“I approve of their relationship and bless it. I can’t marry a husband who doesn’t and will not love me.” a female voice chirps in from one corner. Princess Amara trudges forward and faces the king whose anger doesn’t not vanish.
Adụre feels a tug forward as they advance toward the king whose look has softened but can kill if it is possible.
“Knee with me, my love.” she hears prince Obinna mumble beside her. Adụre hesitates but has to comply. “Bless us father and let today be the beginning of our togetherness as one.” nothing. Nothing will make her regret ever knowing and loving prince Obinna.
The king’s face softens as he mutters out loudly.“I will only do that if she says she feels the same way about you.” Adụre notices all eyes have diverted toward her. Her face flush as they await her answer.
by Ikechukwu Henry (@Ikechukwuhenry01 Instagram, @Ikechukwuhenry_ Twitter)
An Unattainable Fantasy
In a catalyst of each other’s love, we consumed one another. Our identities locked when our gazes fixed. A silent room loud with the butterfly pandemonium taking place in our chests. A battle that fluttered to nest in each other’s lives.
Weeks to months go by, hands still locked. Never drifting much further than the eyelashes that fluttered around the eruption in our irises.
The world around us took a turn and I was protected by our identity. But the transition in your eyes told a lie. Hand holding was no temptation when we walked the streets together. We’d become acquaintances compelled with memories that no longer painted the present.
To outrun this unattainable fantasy that our lives could no longer follow, new place was a destination but without one another. With our own love locked in our individual strides because this love was not a commit-able translation of the hardships in our lives to everlastingly pay triumph to.
by Priya Patel (@pripattie Instagram)
Litany of Longing
Please move closer.
Not too much
(I tend to lose my breath around you)
but just enough that if I were to turn or twist at the perfect angle
we might find ourselves brushing fingertips.
Please look my way.
Your bright hazel eyes
(I think they’re hazel anyway)
would be so kind as to look into my dull brown ones where maybe you’ll mistake the reflection
of your starry gaze for my own sparkle.
Please say my name.
Let your honeysuckle lips drip
(I’ll collect the nectar)
of syllables as they fall slowly, softly like a good cup of coffee only the result would leave me
much sweeter than any addition of sugar and cream.
Can this be a beginning?
Please.
by Cara Blanco (@caraxquill Twitter)
Pianos
Do pianos long to be played?
Do they sit and wait for someone’s delicate fingers to play upon their keys and make them sing?
Do they prefer the upbeat rhythms of jazzy clubs or the reverent hymns of gospel choirs on Sunday mornings?
Are they inclined to the wrinkled hands of professionals that know them like old friends?
Or do they enjoy the messy work and practice of a child learning?
I wonder if they yearn for a particular life.
by Kara Heywood (@karaelyseheywood Instagram)
Numb Rumblings
Weapons of my own making
Carving out crevices of
Loneliness
Dancing flames permeate
Soothing notes clashing
Calamity
Each strand pulling
Daring to fight for
Sanity
Green-eyed dragon
Stealthily stirring up
Shame
Gulping down slowly
Trapped in silence
Truth
Diving head-first blindly
Seeking your only
Escape
by Nitika Balaram (@musings.by.nitika Instagram)
long gone,
i find my heart thrumming in my chest
like a locomotive with its own intention,
hard pressed to collide with you.
unnervingly, consistently, longingly.
it is a slow thing, your finger dipping
through my skin, pulling away
as if you sifted away gold from my epidermis,
as if you have found something truly
beautiful just beyond the first layer.
and when i flush against your pupils
like a child’s first flower, you are enamored
and i to you am fed small morsels
light and full, warm and leading me
around like a red string around my neck
i am in the sea, full of push and pull
and you are pulling me, from the
marrow of my bones, as if the blood
in my heart is yours alone, i am
more than persuaded, despite formidable
resistance, pushing into the very cracks
of my skin.
but there is a tune in my mind
that sings ‘I’d turn to dust beside you
if there’s room’ and as i reach ever closer,
the locomotive in my chest rushes forth
with newest fervor
by Olubunmi Oni (@poeuhms)
swim press 