Yearning Poem Novels & Stories

At dawn, Christina was startled awake by a commotion. She opened the door and saw, in the garden of the neighboring villa, a haggard woman clutching a man's shirt with trembling hands. Her voice tore through the morning air. "Dirk, I've loved you for ten whole years and bore you several children! When we got married, you promised to love me forever! It hasn't even been that long, and you dare to keep a mistress behind my back?" Despite the early hour, many people had already gathered by the lakeside for their morning walks. The scandalous scene unfolded before them, drawing more curious eyes with each passing second.

Toward the structures that deserved it. Away from themselves. The evening came. They went back inside. To the table. To the thirty-five pages. To the work. To the room that was large enough to hold nineteen years and twelve years and six years and three years and all the years that were still coming the uncounted ones, the unwalked ones, carried by people not yet arrived who would arrive because the room was there. Because the table was set. Because the water had found its level.

Zann was braiding my hair, holding a piece of candy, smiling warmly as he said, “Neve, when I grow up, I’ll build you a castle and make you the happiest princess.” Trembling, I mustered my last ounce of strength. With bloodstained fingers, I slid across the screen to send my last message. [Zann, I’m not waiting anymore. My life repays you and Wanda. Bury me with my parents.] Each word drained every ounce of energy from my body, as if pouring all the grievances, agony, and despair of the past year into that brief message. When the message was sent, every shred of burden was lifted. I closed my eyes, utterly drained.

Mine instead cries out for green pastures by cool streams where only raucous birds break sweet silences. Yet evening falls vaulting grey towers over petulant spires and sour temples where I alone stand sentinel against encroaching night. These foreign fineries grate upon each sense reminding outcast heart yearning simpler hearths now lost to stern mortal law. Never can stolen moments satisfy what soul truly craves in chambered nautilus layers glimpsed solely by you my bright Persephone before cool shadows reclaim us to dutiful winter realms underground ... When at last the well-meaning emissaries retreated from what had become less diplomatic parley and more outright hostile confrontation am

On the endless path of waiting I wanted to turn back, But my steps halted, When the memories of him hit me This path might be long and endless, But the nostalgic feelings were overbearing Clenching my fists and Tightening my heart, I let out a long breath And sighed heavily There is nothing A person in love cannot do My heart skipped a beat, With every step on the long path Just thinking about you Force me to forget about The long tiring journey Filled with thoughts My journey turned shorter and shorter

The urgency in her voice echoed the hunger in her heart, pleading for the release that hovered just beyond her grasp. The intensity of their connection ignited a deeper yearning within her, and she craved the sweet release that seemed to dance just out of reach. The sensation of him filling her completely was intoxicating, a drug that left her wanting more with each passing moment. The rhythm of their bodies created a seductive melody, each thrust a note in the symphony of their desire, playing to the tempo of their racing hearts. As she locked eyes with her reflection, she saw the raw, unabashed longing mirrored back at her—a beautiful, desperate woman lost in the depths of her pleasure, ye

I glanced at Khloe first and she motioned me to go on so I gripped the edges of the book and read every word on the paper: " Ocean soul sparkles and lingers Silent cries whispering to the air Golden mare gliding between my fingers Her vast agony is too much for me to bear How could I cease her pain away? Why is it my heart aching hearing her wail? Eager to shelter her full to make her day The sole reason why I shadow her trail Touching her plump lips awakens my spirit Her beautiful voice brings essence to my ear Caressing her smooth skin under the moonlit Change the darkness of my night to disappear Needs of her presence are greater than seas The carnal of my longing far superior than eterni

Not bothering about my favorite hairstyle, I gradually eyed the old page that had been sprinted with the dark ink. “As winter's breath draws near, late autumn's phase seems queer. A strange time in life's sphere. The balmy zephyrs of summer, once beloved, now stir within you a disapproval. To the depths of the mind it leads, where shadowed memories plant their seeds, of the last few months it speaks, And in the heart, a sadness leaks. Simultaneously, it ignites a longing within to behold the splendour of snowflakes descending. Learn to shroud thyself in icy veneer, leaving warmth a mere figment to revere.” How many times have I read this? About a hundred times or more. But the more I read th

My wife Naomi Holden's phone was always on silent mode. Whenever I needed to reach her, the call never went through. My only option was to ask everyone around us, but when every single person gave a different answer, I already knew the truth. She was with him again, the frail man she had never been able to let go of. On our seventh anniversary, we had plans to meet at our usual spot for dinner. Three hours passed, and she still had not shown up. I stood on the street, burning with fever, dialing one number after another. My father picked up, his voice warm and unhurried. "Naomi just came by for dinner. Don't worry, I've got my eye on her for you." A friend working at her company lau

A man repairs a fence that will be broken again by something larger than livestock. Eliza sits inside where the firelight can reach her. She is silent, wrapped in her own stillness, watching everyone as if she is memorizing a world that keeps trying to misplace her. I should feel relief that she’s here. I do. But there is another feeling layered beneath it now. Something sharp and aching. Yearning. It surprises me. Not because I’m unfamiliar with wanting, but because this wanting feels older than the hours I have known her. It feels practiced. It lives in my hands.