broken pieces of glass
sitting on an empty floor
like small little flowers
made of transparent goo
your hand on mine
after every hello and goodbyes
broken glasses
on the floor reminds of you
shattered, damaged
with not enough glue to stick it all together
back to what it was before

Frida Aguiar Estrada

--

--

Everything will disappear but Your love
Rivers will dry and mountains will become a plain
But Your love will remain
My belongings and letters and words will vanish
My bones will become dust together with my thoughts
But You are here, impossible to forget
You are the same, You never change
All things must pass, but not You
You stay, forever

Nah

--

--

As I encounter myself in the mirror
Time seems to stand still
I look at my fine lines
The way my lips tend to get dry
My old acne scars
I feel like I’ve been like this forever
The same new old person
Hanging by a thread
Stuck with who I am, was, and will be

Kateryna H.

--

--

Dear Diary,
Today I woke up feeling overwhelmed by a feeling I can’t describe. I just feel it very deep in my soul. This morning, I took a long walk around the lake next to Thomas's house is an absolute desire to see him. That feeling accompanied me until now, as I write. It is late at night. I have a candle by my bed. I am 18 years old and my desire for love seems to grow more and more every day. I wonder if I will ever feel loved. Mother told me that love is built, it doesn’t happen. It is crafted. I do not understand love. I understand what I feel around Thomas and that is enough.

Based on one of the prompts in the book “642 Things To Write About” by The San Francisco Writers’ Grotto.

--

--

My uncle Tom told me about this lake in Nebraska. Said I should go there alone. Such a weirdo. I was twenty, and I had no idea why he was telling me this. He used to be the funny one after a couple of beers. Recently, he asked me if I got to go there. I said no, but it was on my plans. I was thirty-five. The next day he passed away. I got to the lake the next month. Middle of the winter. I sat by the same rocks he once did. For an hour. Contemplating the absolute silence of it all. Nothing on my mind but the pureness of the moment. Being alive was about sitting on a rock by a lake. Alone.

Ales Krivec

--

--

Marie called me on September 12th, 2016 to tell me about her mother. She came to my apartment and I made coffee. I explained it was cheap but hot. She didn’t care. She drank it like it was water. Hands trembling. My mother is sick. She might die, and I don’t feel a thing. That was the first time I ever meet someone whose mother was about to die. Are you in denial? I said, while now, trying to drink the horrible coffee. No, I just don’t care. Am I sick in the head? She asked, now lighting up a cigarette. Her mom was about to die, but the one killing herself was right in front of me. I couldn't save the mom, and I couldn't help the daughter. Might as well make some more coffee.

Unknown

--

--

While driving with you down Deer Street
There was nothing better than feeling your hand
Slowing going down my thighs
Rubbing my knee with your thumb
I used to close my eyes and breath the smell of your old car
Feeling all the feelings I was able to when I was 18
I used to think I would never feel that way before
And I never did.

painting of cars rain and traffic lights
Unknown

--

--

I watched the rain fall
I watched you from across the street
Wet and cold
Still, you managed to look towards my window
Who knows what could have happened
That rainy Sunday morning
If it wasn't for the rain or the window
Between us

Andy Henderson

--

--