Yearning Poems Novels & Stories

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.

No matter what angle she looked at it from, he always seemed to be staring back at her, like he was actually present in his own funeral, trying to communicate with her, aiming to make his presence known somehow. Or maybe she was just overexaggerating, or stressed, or both. In the process of crying, however, tiny teardrops landed on the note she held, forcing her to continue reading, despite her burdened heart. Yomi's poem reads: I wait to see you when I wake and dream of you at night, There is nothing I would rather gaze at than this sight. Your face is so exquisite that I forget how to speak, And with every visit to your beauty I become more weak.

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

His hands were soft and sensual as he brushed my cheek. I shut my eyes and waited for him to turn me round again. He was gone! That was okay. Tomorrow would be another day. I began singing to myself. My vulva, the horn, The Boat of Heaven, Is full of eagerness like the young moon. My untilled land lies fallow. As for me, Inanna, Who will plow my vulva? Who will plow my high field? Who will plow my wet ground? As for me, the young woman,

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb

O karam khudaya hai tujhe maine jo paaya hai tujhpe marke hi to mujhe jeena aaya hai O tere sang yaara khushrang bahara tu raat deewani main zard sitaara O tere sang yaara khushrang bahara tere bin ab to na jeena gawaara (With you, O beloved, the spring is colorful, without you now, I wouldn't want to live.)

Her wet thighs slid apart with little conscious effort, and she sighed when the cloth went between them. She knew now that a crisis of some kind was approaching, an unknown pinnacle of physical sensation. Every part of her was filled with a deep, sweet yearning, laden with a hunger that she couldn’t quite define. Maybe this was the ‘desire’ the books spoke of: the rapture, the very transports of passion? It seemed almost incomprehensible that she should feel it with these women when the idea of a man made her shudder, and yet somehow she was helpless to resist.

The earth trembled as you passed by, Turning everything sacred as you walked. And you set your blue eyes upon me for the first time, speaking at me with the depth of the night ...like a nightingale who doesn't need its wings to fly. What a blessing it is to be worthy of your look. I have seen rain on the desert, and all impossible things coming true. All of my prayers carry your name. I wish to be pure so that I can desire you.

But the memory remains frustratingly just out of reach, an ethereal mist slipping through her fingers. Frustration turns to desperation as Yennifer's attempts to recapture the fragments of her dream prove futile. She longs for the vivid imagery to resurface, to make sense of the emotions that had swept her away during those fleeting moments of slumber. In her mind, she grasps at the fading tendrils of a hazy landscape, desperately yearning for clarity.

Even the bailiffs stood stunned. Aidan’s voice suddenly rose, exploding through the courtroom, "And when I had a fever of 104 degrees, my dearest father threw me out onto the street in the middle of winter like I was garbage!" Soft sobs began rippling through the gallery. Ellie was already shaking from crying, her makeup smeared across her face. "I hate you." Aidan suddenly turned toward our mother, his gaze sharp as a poisoned arrow. "That day in court, you could have chosen me. Why him? Why?!"