Upon Springs hem
    we become
Attuned to the morning
         sparrow melodies
With their sweet honey
chorus
And gems
The canopy
of green leaves
Upon the maple trees
With their quiet majesties
The blooming of roses
Like long lost valentines

It must be sweet to be a gardener
WithIn the hips of Spring
And feel flowers sing

     With all of Loves longing

They are the down to earth
Royalty of petals and beauty

And what they love
         Is what we can love
All the more
In our own unique way
As loves flowers begin again
To sway
What romantics innately love
Like Vineyards to breeze

Even the gardeners
       in the galapagos
Have an array of splendors
       to cultivate
As the lyrical
Is felt with the kisses
Of Moonlight of sweet rain

     And sighs can fly
Way deep down inside
Like things like wings glide
WithIn
With our love
All the way to Moon

Reynaldo Casison

My dorm room was bright this morning. It was disorienting.
The sky outside was a cloudless, striking neon blue.
The air was so crisp and clean, I could hardly feel it going in and out.
It all sparked to create a diffused sense of well-being.

Gone, it seems, were the concrete bunker feels of winter.

There's been some loose talk of ‘spring’ lately—I thought it was fake news—but from my third floor lattice windows I could see what looked like people outside. They were walking in the sunshine, riding bikes, throwing frisbees, kicking ​​hacky sacks, a couple was making out in the grass—it was a riot of activity.

Sunny skiffed out of her room (which looks like a hotel room trashed by some rock star), she seemed lighter than air. Three days ago, she announced there was someone of “particular personal significance,” in her life (translate: girlfriend).
Start the schmaltzy, string-drenched soundtrack—love is in the air.

Our challenge now is to carve out a poised and measured final act to our undergraduate years. There’s a scurrying, cynosure, beehive, hyperfocus to labs and classes, a heightened, almost cinematic quality, as if, up to now, we’ve only been practicing for some undefined ‘real thing.’
.
.
Songs for this:
Daylight by Harry Styles
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing by Michael McDonald
Dizzy (feat. Alfie Templeman & Thomas Headon) by chloe moriondo
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.our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list.

Sunny, (suitemate) 21, a (pre-med) molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major, is a cowgirl from Nebraska (seriously, she has a quarter horse and barrel races). She’s an outspoken fem-facing ladies-lady.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

You relish the way I caress your flesh,
Kneading into your deep tissue,
Exfoliating with grit and ground remedies,
And brushing the cool, slick oils up and down your curves.

You share stories of saunas,
Describing how you enjoy the steamy sensation
As I lay you upon the rack, closing the hatch-
Infused with the aroma of oak and red cherry.

The enticing scent of your sweat fills the air
Creating a potpourri of aromas.
The sizzling of your songs tingle in my soul like a reverie,
captivating my senses.

Hours pass, and I, like a tempting man,
Brush your bronzed body to a tease,
Kissing with my nostrils to your sear marks.
As I feel your heat envelop my follicles, 
I’m consumed by a lustful desire.

Finally, I remove you from the iron-hot bed
And place you on the cleanest marble.
I stare at you, awestruck by your perfect brown and moist skin,
Dripping with juices succinctly.
You radiate such radiance, beauty, and temptation
That I can’t resist the urge to devour you.

“You’re smoking!” I exclaim, my hunger palpable.