Yearning Poems Novels & Stories

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

Raisa wrote a poem entitled in the quiet, she then reread her work. In a lonely corner of the silent night, I hug your shadow in this loneliness. The longing that slices the heart, Flowed with tears that did not stop. In every beat of my heart, There is your name that echoes sadly. The hope that used to strengthen, Now only a painful memory. I walk in empty hallways, Without direction, without light. All the promises you once made, Are now just shadows that disappear slowly. Time passes slowly and cruelly, Leaving deep wounds.

Out of nowhere, like he did last time? I let out a soft laugh. God, I can’t wait to see him. Maybe I’m losing my mind. This feeling — it’s driving me insane. This longing burns straight through my chest, makes it hard to breathe. Like I’m suffocating under the weight of someone’s shadow. Someone I desperately want to hold… but who still stands far, far away. Yongju… I’m coming home. -o0o-

Two pence a heartache, three pence a distaff, the run of my fiber is blood. Hardcore, recoil, my skirts are a gun. I go where the wild fox runs. Two score and twenty days I died long ago – I cannot do this without you. So I reach out my hands, my lustful green hands to catch on the penny inside you. But Devil, you are quick, and Devil, inside me, I'm gutting myself like a blind man. Give that blind man a knife, that blind man a wife, and the Blind God does not kneel before me.

It makes every second seem longer, every night more lonely. The longing is gentle but sharp, slipping mercilessly through the cracks of thought. It comes in the form of familiar scents, moonlight once shared, or the whisper of the wind caressing the skin with tenderness. Longing means forming new habits—checking the calendar, then the phone, hoping for a call. It's like waiting for rain in a dry season—there's no guarantee it will come, but the heart keeps hoping. In the longing there is a silence that is never really empty. There are echoes of laughter that surround the solitude, and the soft sighs that float in the imagination.