Writing has been used an expression since the beginning of time

A way to let out emotion

Or to show perspective

To make people really think

Books, poems, stories

They all are like old friends

Ready to tell you the most amazing tale

Or make you contemplate yourself

They are there to make one feel understood

To provide comfort in the darkest of times

Like a big hug

Welcoming you home

How I love words

It might be that one boy in your class

His eyes always glazed over like glass

He never asks

and maybe perhaps

Take that chance

And ask if he's okay

It might be that one girl at practice

Who may seem to have a bad status

Who is always distracted from us

Please don't be tactless

Nor fractious

and just check on her too

Put yourself in their shoes

Don't you see it true?

What they might be going through?

And is the soul ship wrecked on some celestial shore

Existing only in memory of an omnipotent God

And these vessels we carry around these bodies

Are they just husks after all

Fulcrum for souls

And is the soul eternal

Soulful eyes

Soulful heart

See into your soul

Spoke from the soul

That is who we really are

And lives are spent finding another

If you're lucky you do

Soul recognition

Beyond all this

Souls were weighed in Russia

.001 of a gram

In an experiment

But we know all this already

This soul realization

And for what else are we

But this

And this.

The more innate passions,

I'm not a kink-whore,

but I love a good dirty talk when it's hinting a factored galore.

Check out the gallery,

The pictures are painted just right.

After dark, plus 18.

Whatever makes it feel right.

Call it closeted.

I don't fucking care.

I just like the expression,

the connection of relationships.

Their touch and feel, not the dispair.

I'm in love with love,

in fever with passion, and

I guess that's not much of a fan faire.

It's a lull,

a dichotomy to my true character.

I like the restraint of my usual day to day affairs.

I am not pressed to be lusterous,

but I like the allure.

It's the opposite of me,

and I suppose opposites attract.

I can't really say if that tit for tat is really a fact.

If you can't hang,

there's the door.

If you can't,

there's the door.

I think we can all presume that the toxicity of the relationships we all abhor,

aren't the things that look like a true chore.

It's when the rawest form of emotions can have a light touch when we're irritated, but the meaning behind them is false.

Faux in that we aren't going to delve into the deeper meaning behind them,

they're just feelings and they're fleeting.

My love for you is heated passion,

so pretty and warm when our mouths meet.

Kisses, pressed lips on a scarred face.

I love you all the more,

in my mind, I expect you'll always want to know.

When I am leaving him for you?

When am I leaving a guy who seems toxic to you.

He's my passion, we fight for play.

If you can't hang,

there's the door.

The words we share between us aren't a chore.

They're just an empty rage, for minor irritations,

I'm a loud kind of girl.

When cartographers drew sea monsters

at the edges of their maps,

they weren’t wrong—

the unknown always has teeth.

I’ve seen truth bend like a river,

finding new paths to the sea,

watched it shimmer in heat waves

rising from summer roads.

What we call fact

is just the shortest distance

between two points of belief.

Ask any quantum particle.

My grandmother swore

she could feel storms coming

in her bones. The weather report

was never as precise.

Some nights, I dream in equations—

perfect proofs dissolving by morning,

leaving only the taste

of certainty behind.

Children know:

their monsters under beds

are as real as taxes,

as death, as gravity.

Truth lives in the space

between what we see

and what we can imagine seeing.

Like light behaving

as both wave and particle,

reality splits itself

to fit our observation.

What’s truer:

the aurora’s colors,

or the magnetic fields

that paint them?

Every memory rewrites itself

each time I remember.

Perhaps that’s the only honesty.

Truth is not a compass

pointing north—

it’s the journey of the needle

trembling, searching.

Start, stop, start, stop...

but never on, off, as it were

that is how we are, not object

and God gives permission

for thoughts to wander,

Ribbons grow arms, legs

reconfigure themselves

in parallel... wrapped

Word and its problems,

falling in, over again

* , with every glance of yours,

I drown in green waves.

Your eyes – like a forest full of secrets,

I get lost in them, needing no way back.

Your smile is the morning,

I eagerly await.

A sunlight that warms the soul,

And brings the world to bloom.

You are the melody of my life,

Every chord bears your name.

You are the breath of my inspiration,

And my eternal spring.

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

She traces the familiar path of his vertebrae—thirty-three notches of bone she's memorized like prayer beads, like stations of the cross. Each touch an absolution neither of them deserves.

Time stretches. Contracts. Pools like candle wax in the hollow of his throat.

They don't speak because words would make it real, would crystallize this ending into something neither can take back. Instead: the whisper of sheets, the staccato rhythm of breath held too long and released too soon, the wet sound of mouths meeting and parting. Meeting and parting. Meeting and—

His hands remember things his mind wants to forget. The exact curve where hip meets thigh. That spot behind her left knee that makes her gasp, makes her arch like a bow string pulled taut. He's mapped her body in the dark so many times he could navigate it blind, could find true north in the constellation of freckles across her shoulder blades.

"Don't," she says when he tries to be gentle. Because gentle would break her. Because gentle would mean acknowledging what comes after.

The late afternoon light filters through gauzy curtains—the same curtains that have witnessed a hundred secret afternoons, a hundred stolen hours. Today the light feels different. Thinner. More precarious. Like it might shatter if they move too suddenly or breathe too deep.

He watches the shadows play across her skin and thinks about quantum physics—how light can be both particle and wave, how it can exist in two states simultaneously. Like them: both ending and eternal. Both here and already gone.

She bites his shoulder hard enough to leave marks that will fade before morning. Before he goes home to a different bed, a different life. Her nails dig crescents into his back—tiny bruised parentheses containing everything they've left unsaid.

The ceiling fan turns lazy circles above them. Around and around and—stop thinking. Stop. Just feel this: skin salt-slick with sweat, muscles trembling on the edge of release, the particular gravity of bodies falling into familiar patterns for the last time.

When it happens, it happens like this: a cascade of small surrenders. The way her breath catches. The way his hands tighten on her hips. The way time fractures and reforms around them. Like a wave breaking. Like a star collapsing. Like the end of all things.

After, they lie in the wreckage of what they've done—what they've been doing—bodies cooling in the artificial breeze. The space between them grows by microns, by millimeters, by miles. Already she can feel him receding, becoming memory.

She doesn't watch him dress. Doesn't watch him check his phone or straighten his tie or gather the scattered pieces of the life he's going back to. Instead she studies the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster like rings in a tree—measuring time in concentric circles of regret.

At the door, he pauses. Opens his mouth. Closes it. What could words possibly add or subtract from this moment?

The click of the latch is so soft it's almost inaudible. Almost.

She lies there until the shadows lengthen and the day bleeds into dusk, until she can no longer smell him on her skin or feel the ghost-print of his hands on her body. Until she becomes singular again. Indivisible. Whole.

Or something like it.