2 minute read

"Love Languages"

by meghna nair

love languages the press of your palm against mine, it speaks to me. the weight of your head on my thigh, it speaks to me. the slow, certain slide of your fingertips through my hair and across the ridges of my spine, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me. the scent of dish soap on your hands, it speaks to me. the rich aroma of coffee on the nightstand, it speaks to me. the whiff of sandalwood shampoo i catch when you bend down to double-knot my shoe laces, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me. the subtle sweetness of green grapes from the farmer’s market, it speaks to me. the crunch of that cheap CVS candy bar you know i like, it speaks to me the bitter tang of salt on my tongue as you sneakily slip a mottled brown shell into my pocket, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me. the sight of you sleeping in the sunlight, it speaks to me. the look on your face when i burn the cupcakes, it speaks to me. the glimmer in your eyes when we’re slow-dancing in the living room without any music on, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me. the warm sincerity in your tone when you call me pretty, it speaks to me. the low rumble in your chest when you call me yours, it speaks to me. the way your voice gets the slightest bit softer as your lips curl around the syllables of my name, it speaks to me, it speaks to me, it speaks to me. (it says ‘i love you’) a first (a second)

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A split second

Of torment and confusion

Of hatred and worry

Of anxiety and regret

A sudden second

Of wonder and fear

Of reasoning and doubt

Of sadness and odds

It only takes a second

To wonder why I put you first

báñame a besos, porfa

A drunk sprawled across her bed

Drinking the tears of her mentality

I reek

A high from the fumes of a messy head

Rolled up in the clothes I wore last week

I reek

A breath of toxic air draped along the roof

Reflects its urban city of trash and paraphernalia

I reek

A week-old, what-once-was delicious meal

Forgotten in the huge pile of distraction

Remnants From An Old Dream By Anon

Satellite-Gazing by anonymous

You taught me how to stargaze. Well, more like how to look beyond the stars themselves, those sparking, shiny constellations everyone craves, to see the forever-orbiting satellites that will never break their cycle of continuous falling.

They seem to dance in a cosmic waltz, an endless romance until their time comes to an end, And they succumb to fate, like a shooting star's chance to burn up or to be sent further into space.

You deemed these machines as the most beautiful visitors of the sky. But like satellites, our time was finite, not enough. ‘What is more human than their inevitable demise?’ i don't mind the smell of fish there is a wisp, a wallow awry from the sounds that carry over the salty blue i am grounded grown and still growing but the sands are still much older than i smile because i know that i could bask in their wisdoms, know that the winds could never weaken its pull to me, my pull to them

We sat there in silence, our orbits wandering apart. With a lullaby of movement, I was ablaze, and he drifted away.

Since then, even on the clearest nights, I cannot seem to find a satellite.

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