Featured Writer

Preslie Price

Hunter Mawson

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Sometimes you can feel the night wrap around you like a wool sweater,
darkness vibrates with feelings,
emphasizing emotions, retracting artificial fronts.
Isn’t it beautiful how something so dark and so endless can be colorful?

The morning brings greater joys;
the streaming of bright, gold beaming light
heralding a new dawn.

The cycling motions of passion,
the pressure of a lonely tomorrow
fixating itself in the eye of the rising sun.

The absolute beauty of hands intertwined in the growing age of the morning.
Pulses knitting together like shoelaces,
beating without synchronization,
an entire world of longing between hearts that will never touch,
heads that will never feel the same,
pieces that have become disjointed with each and every sunrise,
creating turbulent afternoons from lazy agendas.

The day stretching,
our lives together becoming
long, overdrawn, searching for purpose,
until the hands of the sunset pull color into the sky.
The night forebodes a different touch,
the grace of simple conversation in the dark.
But by morning the whispers of hands long abandoned,
a false sense of security flowing between bodies,
dwindling hope lurks between the spaces shared.

Afternoons spent apart meant to create longing
establish instead the solidarity,
routinely acknowledged by the sound of You and I
becoming foreign on lips
that no longer feel the hunger of touch.
It has become customary for our voices to fall silent.
Fearful confessions of love devoid dying seamlessly
with no outward discontent.
Too afraid of the acceptance of a romance finished
and the birth of isolation, from the start of each daybreak.