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Wy Nov 8
Time should have been enough
Time and space and ignoring you
But I can't.

Ignoring you is like holding my breath
A challenge, possible until it inevitably isn't.
I can't.

Your hair is longer but your eyes are the same.
Your smile is quieter but you stand taller now,
laugh louder.

I wrote you a letter, and I want to send it.
I want to stamp it and send it away from me and to you
But I can't.

I can't let myself go, that small secret.
I can't.
fray narte Sep 1
My throat is heavy with August’s sorrows
I sit by the shore and wait for the weakest waves
to drown my little feet — I  stagger over them like a clumsy giant.
But it’s seaborne sadness wraps, a constant, unrelenting embrace
like a mother’s grief,
a gentle creature’s death,
a rabid dog feasting on a poor, meatless bone.
I am alive — so cruelly alive for it all
as it falls

down my throat, down my chest like a child’s pained whisper.
My body is heavy with August’s weight as I retire to my filthy bed
and hold myself.

Cold are the nights in their quiet,
lackadaisical, taunting hours.

Come now, September. Come, kindly, if you please;
sweep me away into a million, invisible dust particles

under clueless, flickering lights.
fray narte Aug 25
I name all of my lovers after months now
and all roads lead to August and
the Roman cities we’ve burned —
how she walked on crumbling streets as I held the matches —
this poem is a page for burning at its tip:
a lone match, scalding — a firelit kiss
but the flames have always been a hypnotic sight
like a woman perched in your sunlit bed —
her hair, red as flames licking my neck,
red as love that bleeds on itself;
it leaves a stain on pretty things.

Now her skin has silk sheets burning away
like banners in a Roman cathedral,
her half-breath kisses, dying — now embers,
tainting my dress black where her lips had staked a claim.
Now her touch is wildfire crawling on my skin
and I am a wounded doe — waiting. waiting.

The only world I know burns to the ground
before my very eyes
and we are no phoenixes, darling; all we do is burn.
Written September 6, 2021
First published in Love, Girls' 1st zine issue, SAGISAG
Maria Mitea Aug 24
rays deviation
gathered in the sorrow of flowers, smiles
falls asleep on the blood moon, honey
glued on the lines of the palms,
that flow like sand from the fists, masters
on the other side of the dawn,

rising dunes in the sky
Gabriel Aug 15
i see things in high definition colour, but
july is the only month that fluctuates—
between florida orange and, later, burnt sienna;
everything between the 1st to the 31st
is dipped in a honey-glaze of three things:
1. warm, sticky air
2. the feeling of 6pm
3. bicycles riding through fields of fireflies.

naturally, i spend most of july in my bedroom—
the heat gets to me, makes my allergies flare
and i watch movies; old, 80s, movies (or—tiktok clips
of the same movie, only broken up into thirty-six parts
that i view from my bed with my naked legs spinning vertical circles through the air).

i always forget the feeling of august
until it’s there again. july
overshadows it with the final embers, so i only realise
it's august on maybe the 5th or 6th. almost
a full week into a month that my brain—
which is never wrong about the way things feel—
sees a deep, ocean blue.

i don't write home about august. i don't hurry it up
through winter months, when i begin the countdown
to hot, hazy days. if anything, i view august
as the ending of something, of a summer i wished so hard for.

and every time, it blindsides me with love.

i love things more in august. i love the smell of summer-
rain on the pavement. i love songs i listened to in january.
i love waiting around for halloween. i love my bedroom,
the pause of heat-sick sleep, the blue-sky mornings.

i write love letters to autumn in a time capsule. i text july and ask u up?, and wyd?, and come over?

and still, when summer ends, i will never want to get what i wish for.
Shofi Ahmed Aug 14
Rolling out from blue lotus
off the sky
nymphs in tangerine bright
all colours
tuck into disappearing
rainbow slides.
Ah, fragrance
of the broad daylight
a day in summery August
is still heady
weaving blue butterflies!
Roanne Manio Aug 10
How I long for your wide open sky.
I long for your sunbeams and your rain—whatever falls into my mouth,
I will gladly take in.

August. How I cling to all your pasts
and all your uncertain futures.
I cling to your promise of ever ever green
and I wait at your doorstep, naive nymph from nether.

Was it for nothing, August?
Do I keep you on my tongue and never in my heart?
August. August.

Endless pastures and lightning-laden nights. Your fleeting love speaks through the dark.
Dorothy Quinn Jan 27
The urge to run away to a seaside town,
To let the salt air peel the paint from the front of my house.

The urge to settle, to let it sink in, to decorate my front porch.
The urge to let my mind rest and work until my back's sore.

The urge to love you
And to be well.

In that salt air town,
Where everyone knows my name.
Most importantly,
The urge to throw it all away.
Sarah Oct 2021
an August rich with wanting
in September my leaves changed colors
and I fell into madness.
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