RomanceforEveryone

Our time was measured in petals.

I used to howl when twilight descended; my muse a yellow orb leading me-- my guidepost in a sea of darkness so black my heart turned inky from disuse. My paw prints created paths of dust and my tail swept them clean as it hung so low to match the bellow in my heart. The stars could not quell my yearning, which twinkled faintly till morning drove me to fitful sleeping and the dew gathered like tears weeping on a dull grey coat. Then, when my desire to live subsided, the sky at night turned lighter and my eyes gleamed brighter as winter carpeted the land in flakes of lace. And I heard his howling even before I spied him lolloping on banks

I don't like waking up my bed feels like god's hands shaking out dreams from my mouth, every cry to wake up but I cant. Into the dark I proceed to stairs of rainbows, ascending to glowing eyes of the creator. Gazing at bleeding skies, crying for the Earth's last siren. Radioactive hills, parched throats choke on purple smoke, bodies falling through windows, whispers from dead bones. gasping for air... drops of sweat trickling from my head to my eye was like lava to the burning jungle. Shifting visions of shadows from glacial deserts. Sandstorms of lost poems. Old friends you'd meet in your dreams told you the End of the Wor

It was supposed to be an ordinary, boring day.  To Keyuri Ketsang, a young Asian American girl and Philosophy grad student, she preferred her days to be a little boring.  Her work had her in the Philosophy Department of Laura Spelman College most days and she liked how quiet the department's office was--there were less than a handful of students in the Philosophy Master's program and the drama so familiar to college students seemed a distant reality for the twenty-three year old.  Most days, she would post fliers for the department's student club and work on keeping the office tidy and neat (a certain difficulty with intellectuals), at least

  I think Colin was lonely. He kept on coming up to my house, day after day after day. Even after I'd explained for the thousandth time that hello, I wasn't that kind of psychic.   Yes, I could see him. And yes, that was rare. I think only one out of maybe a hundred thousand people can see ghosts? And Upton was too small to have a genuine psychic in residence. He told me that until I  moved in, no one had ever seen him. And tethered to the cemetery, unable to go more than a few miles, he couldn't leave town to seek anyone out. But I wasn't the kind of psychic he was looking for. I didn't carry messages for the dead. I didn't try to help them

I stare at Lori as she grows smaller and smaller, wringing my hands.  She's always been the brave one, doing dares, taking risks, while I just watch her in awe, and sometimes terror. It's terror at the moment.  She's twenty feet up, and still climbing. There's a little clump of 10-year-old boys from the neighborhood watching avidly next to me.  One of them got one of those new drone toys with lots of propellers for Christmas, he's been flying it around nearly every day since.  It was a little creepy, because the thing had a camera and I swear I'd seen it hovering outside my window once.  But if you watched him use it, it was endearing, that

Night under the stars Characters: Young Obi Wan Kenobi (age 19) and young Duchess Satine Kryze (age 19) Qui Gon Jinn The sound of the grass passed through his ears as he let the soft sound rustle through his mind, letting it relax him. The smell of blossoms filled his nose as he lay there upon the grass, twisting strands of it through his finger. Beside him was his lightsaber, his boots kicked off and flat on the floor behind him and one hand behind his auburn hair, raising it slightly of the ground. a small rustle from behind him startled him as he suddenly sat up and felt two warm hands cover his eyes. "Guess who?" a small, sweet voice

                Just because it is burning my mind, and it holds a grenade that blasts everything I have into remnants of his musky scent; because I feel like I'm gagging, except that I'm coughing poems and vomiting metaphors; because words can be a crumpled piece of paper drowned in tears, and every poem written can be blended into fiction; and because my limbs feel like they had been devoured by the lava in the words and the music notes I play sink deep between the piano keys, and apparently banging the keys does not help silencing the empty screams at night.            

My soul has been pulverised by this dark creature. Give it back! Yeah what we had. Take it back, the times I was sad, crazed and mad. Now I'm just glad that this isn't just a fad. Now Free fall with me. As we spiral back descending into gravity. This sickness revolves inside. It poisons me forever like a fresh scar. Steals all I need away from me. How do we move on from this state? This hell devolves beside me. With the blood I let for her on that night. So long ago now it seems. Yet still remember that night piercing my soul. Tearing into my flesh like a razor blade. Of what you fear, I bear forevermore. No! I can't get close, not

:bulletred: Blood Companions :bulletred: Months.   Not days, or weeks. But months. And it was all for nothing.   Halena sighed heavily as she pulled her bath towel firmly around her torso and lounged across her motel bed. In truth, the woman had been dry for quite some time, but having just received an unwanted visitor she had yet to get dressed.   “How the hell did he find me,” the woman, who was actually a demon, growled to herself as she raked a shaky hand through her soft brown hair, and stared up at the vaguely white ceiling fan that floated above her.   She had been on the run for months; fresh out of hell and free of her

                But what you don't know is that I am frustrated that I can't write a poem about the thorns growing on my veins or icebergs rooting in my heart. I can't write about the void in me when he no longer plays me Beethoven's music or sings me out of tune songs.                Because there is none. I didn't feel anything when he left.                Truth is, I want to feel crushed and heart broken, because at least sadness could prove that I did love him and that what he said about me never loving him is wrong.

When I explore your body, I get lost in a library of time stored on shelves- 16 hour bus rides, 9 years worth of longing. Longing for your touch like a tea pot tipping, waiting for the water to land. A cup of coffee sat on a counter getting cold, our story put on hold, brought back to life years later. We’ve blown off the dust, and the story has matured. In a field your freckles are stars in the sky, tiny city lights that can only be seen from the top of a hill. Since August 2006, an apple seed has become an orchard. On my skin you drew rivers and roads with your fingers. You found the route to my heart and made a nest, reminding me th

When I first met Sarna she was 21, I was 22. From the moment I saw her I knew that I loved her. It’s hard to explain this love, for it wasn’t like romance or even sexual attraction, but a part of me cared for her in a way that I’d never experienced before. Her eyes piercing through my very soul. Selflessly I wanted to protect her from the harms of this world. She was so beautiful and amazingly kind and I felt proud to know her and witness her strength in the wake of her father of whom had recently passed away. Sometimes she would cry in my arms and I didn’t know what to say other than the simple words that I knew for s

Twilight on the California beach, the soft cry of seagulls fill the air. Sand crabs dance beneath my feet, as the low lure of the waves draw me in. Hand gliding through the surf- flowing with the strength of the deep- grasping unto the tip of a feather. That is when I remember you the most, your frantic scream breaking me from my daydreams. “Are you crazy lady? It is thirty degrees!” Those words, they continue to run their course. Stepping from the ocean, blackbird feather in hand, I turn to look at you, to see that dumb founded gaze. “You don’t know the half of it.” I laughed. Winters are unlike summers, where