Love

This Is Not a Poem About Love
I used to think love ended loudly. I imagined slammed doors, dramatic goodbyes, tears falling onto unfinished sentences. Movies taught me that heartbreak arrives like a storm — sudden, violent, impossible to ignore.
By LegacyWords2 months ago in Fiction
When Hurt Changes Hands
The first time she said it, he believed her. They were at the kitchen table. Late. The overhead light was too bright, the kind that exposes flaws. She had just finished telling him that he was exhausting to be around, that his sensitivity made everything heavier than it needed to be.
By Jesse Lee2 months ago in Fiction
Part of Me. Runner-Up in Rituals of Affection Challenge.
My love and I have been trapped inside of our respective houses like rats in a cage ever since the start of the pandemic. An ocean separates us, but distance is no challenge to our love. Text messaging, email- these things are so impersonal and cold. She and I are old souls both, and prefer the method of the old-fashioned letter. It takes longer, but the heart grows fonder with delayed gratification, to put a new spin on an old, tired phrase. I've certainly found it true in any case.
By Raistlin Allen2 months ago in Fiction
Steamy signatures
I write her intials everywhere. Carved in trees. Sharpied on the golf balls I use. I love the symmetry, the simplicity because she is anything but simple. My written devotion to her always begins in the shower. I'll slide the glass door open, turn the shower knob slightly hotter than what is immediately comfortable. Then I'll step out and wait until the glass fogs like beer mugs in a fridge. When the glass morphs from transparent to translucent, that's when I'll step back in. I'll stand still, elated by the hot water, embodying the warmth that feels like she did, and then I'll begin the artwork. I'll search for a spot I hadn't used before, and then I'll write her intials, "SWS" and underneath, a heart and an X and O. Then, I'll write it again on the other side, then again on the shaving mirror. I'm approaching two years in a row without missing a day. I'll even do this at friends' houses. In essence, I'm the Banksy of love.
By Daniel K2 months ago in Fiction
Unaccounted Dreams
Lydia sat on the edge of the sofa, never completely relaxed nor ready for anything either. She sipped tea politely listening to Erika's mumbling. Money on the brain. That's all she thinks of. Lydia knew they had everything needed or could ever want, but no, Erika always wanted more.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 months ago in Fiction
Romantic Picnic For Two. Honorable Mention in Rituals of Affection Challenge.
The evening air hung heavy and hot, unseasonably warm for April. As the sun sank down, hovering just over the mountains in the distance, its angry glare blinded Tanya as she walked westward. Cursing herself for forgetting her sunglasses, she shifted the weight of the pack on her shoulders, letting a rivulet of sweat slip down her spine. Her feet angrily protested her choice to place fashion over function as the leather of her sandals chafed the back of her heel and sides of her toes. But Tanya didn't stop or slow. She moved forward, watching the trees in the distance grow closer with each step.
By A. J. Schoenfeld2 months ago in Fiction
He Loves Me. Runner-Up in Rituals of Affection Challenge.
The church bell tolls—dong, dong, dong. I sit on the bench and wait, like I have every day for five years. Roland and I used to have lunch with the guys every afternoon, but when my circumstances changed, we agreed just to meet here.
By Aubrey Rebecca2 months ago in Fiction
The Shell’s Call
Kaia wandered the sun-kissed shores of Cayo Costa each and every morning, collecting calcium carbonate treasures and listening to the gentle hum of churning ocean water.
By Madison "Maddy" Newton2 months ago in Fiction
The Light She Tends
The stone steps of the Veli Rat lighthouse were worn smooth in the centre, a shallow groove carved by a century of keepers’ boots. Petra knew each one by heart—the twelfth step that chirped like a cricket, the twenty-eighth where a seam of quartz caught the sunset and glowed like a vein of gold.
By Anna Soldenhoff2 months ago in Fiction
The Friday Ritual
The routine was a loop, the same silent ceremony every Friday at 7:00 PM sharp. It had been going on for three long years. Marko would stand at the heavy oak table, his shoulders tight, and begin to slice the sourdough. Skritch. Skritch. The sound of the blade biting through the hard crust was the only clock that ticked in that house. He cut each slice with the focus of a surgeon, terrified that if a single crumb fell outside some imaginary line on the dark wood, the fragile peace he’d spent years building would just snap.
By Feliks Karić2 months ago in Fiction
Every Sunday at 4:17
Every Sunday at 4:17 p.m., Eleanor brushes her husband’s hair. The nurses know not to interrupt. They used to ask why that time. They don’t anymore. Hospitals teach people the mathematics of grief. After a while, no one questions the arithmetic.
By Edward Smith2 months ago in Fiction
The Witch’s Poisonous blood. Content Warning.
The beast bit into my flesh, and the wet, sucking sound of his sharp teeth tearing into skin, blood, muscle, and tendons made me nauseous.
By Minou J. Linde2 months ago in Fiction