Yearning Poem Novels & Stories

And that familiar, almost painful tug twisted deep in my chest, a primal yearning that was growing more difficult to dismiss as mere adolescent fancy. I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug small, crescent-shaped marks into my palms. The pain brought focus. One day, I swore internally, addressing the endless darkness beyond the glass. One day, you absolute wilderness, I'll answer. And the final, dangerous, exhilarating thought pulsed through my mind, mingling with the scent of pine and the cold night air. And maybe, just maybe... someone...him, will be there when I do.

🍆👑Chapter 1👑🍆 I have never desired a woman. Not once in my thirty-two years have I looked at the soft curves of a lady’s body and felt true hunger. Breasts, wide hips, the sweet scent between a woman’s thighs, they do nothing for me. I have fucked women before, of course. A king must produce heirs, after all. But every time I buried myself in a warm, wet pussy, my mind wandered somewhere else. I finished the job out of duty, never out of real need.

This was the first time ever, I was so confused without knowing the clear path I should take. Above all, I desired her with an intensity unmatched by anything else. I craved her by my side, in my arms, in my bed. I yearned for her as my wife, my queen, my lover. I was consumed by an overwhelming ache that refused to subside. Every fiber of my being longed for Freya, her absence leaving a void that nothing could fill. I yearned for her infectious smile, her laughter that could light up the darkest of rooms, and the sound of her voice that soothed my troubled soul.

That was the physical proximity I was subtly, in many, different unspoken ways, allowed on our first official date. I didn’t correct her that bhalobashi becomes bhalobashbo when you add chirodin to it; that it transcends from immediate present to an infinite future. Yearnings are treacherous lycanthropes – I don’t even recall how or when my yearning transformed from a mediaeval hope of keep-looking-into-her-eyes to a post-modern put-your-hand-around-her-waist.

Wendy’s lips trembled as she stared at James’s face, clinging to her last shred of hope. When James shook his head in confusion, her tears spilled uncontrollably down her face. "I was wrong..." she murmured, covering her face with her hands. "I was wrong... There’s no going back... There’s no going back..." James sat silently across from her, watching her sob bitterly, as if her heart were being torn apart. The soft strains of music played faintly in the background. “Begging for your forgiveness might be harder than dying...” After what felt like an eternity, Wendy finally spoke again.

The nanny got to work, collecting every photo album and frame, then stacking them on the lawn. Jessica uncorked several bottles of Anthony's prized red wine, dousing the memories in scarlet. She poured a glass for herself and one for the nanny. Their glasses met with a hollow clink, the echo of a five-year love breaking apart. Jessica flicked the lighter and tossed it into the heap, watching the past go up in flames. Flickering flames cast a warm glow as Jessica tipped back her glass, the last of the wine mingling with the tears that traced a path down her cheeks.

You know, I’d like to brush your hair when things go ugly, as in when a tsunami hits the seawall and there’s no one to fix your hair out of fear. I will celebrate your eyes’ uncalculated blink as it might change the season from tinder-parched mornings to being 84 and still writing you poems. You know, I’d like to see you cry, laugh at people off to work, because you’re edged to clear the skies of jinx and throat-clogged pretensions. The paddling mallards, oh, I want to count

Of each other and of oneself: of all the things they might have to do, may want to do, are doing to one another. It's a year of longing. Every inch of the body yearns for something more. The limbs are caught in restless tremble, and soft sighs linger on desperate lovers’ lips. Like on Helen’s. In her life, she has loved many things, mostly trivia. Black coffee in the morning, smiling strangers in the park, and the sense of freedom that crashing waves on stormy shores would wash into your heart.

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

It was an impossible paradox, a whirlwind of emotion that felt both impossibly fast and overwhelmingly, undeniably right. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of anticipation and pure, unadulterated yearning. His scent, an almost dizzying blend of pure wilderness and something uniquely his, carried a faint, unsettling familiarity. It was a phantom whisper of a past I yearned with every fiber of my being to forget, a bitter echo of the rejections and profound losses that had carved scars deep within my soul.