Yearning Poetry Novels & Stories

She asked me with concern. "Ady....can't you see I was jogging, that's what people come here for," I told in a sarcastic tone. "Look around and tell me, do you seriously think people come here to jog?" she asked. I looked around my surroundings. I was near a cemetery. Yes, a real CEMETERY. I was so engrossed in my thoughts and was so much trying to not think about those memories that I didn't even realize how far have I come.

"Would you like to take a walk in the garden? The greenhouse is nice, but the outdoor paths are open to us today." "I’d love to," I said, closing my book. We walked out into the sun-drenched gardens. The air was crisp, but the sun was warm on my shoulders. As we walked, Darian began to talk about Southern poetry. "In the South, we believe that words have their own scent," he explained as we passed a row of blooming lilies. "We have poets who spend their entire lives trying to capture the feeling of the first rain after a drought. They use a structure called 'The Golden Verse'. It’s patterned, like a heartbeat."

I knew she felt it. She felt the tension pulsing through me. The fierce hunger. The pressure of my grip. The dark, possessive longing her absence had carved into me. This was no longer gentle courtly romance. It was raw. Dominant. Wild desire made unbearable by distance. We were tormenting each other through memory. Through longing. Through the instinctive language of our bodies. I’ll have you back, I sent through the bond, saturating every thought with longing and dark promises as my hand settled into a slow, agonizing rhythm.

Rolling gently up to repeatedly break upon Magical banks girdling Nivians lakeshore. For what be this odd muse That upon my aging senses does so readilyEnthuse...And to my inner soul so inextricably Implore? Ahhh...But this much I may be allowed to Say, Before darkly gathering skies extinguish Over weak flames of the last spluttering Ray, Perhaps it is our inner voice That seeks out the solitudes of Tranquilities choice - To witness and record and dutifully store... Those rare and fleeting moments We all too briefly adore.

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.

The rest of the world faded away, and all I wanted was to be near him. A sense of urgency filled me, a yearning to connect on a deeper level. It felt as if the air around us had thickened, and I was caught in a whirlwind of desire. I craved his touch, and his warmth, and a part of me longed for him to understand the depth of my feelings. My mind swirled with questions, yet the words eluded me. I was restless, yearning, and caught in a heat that drove me to madness.

You may not know where you're going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you. The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.

"At the show tonight, you were so beautiful and alive. I watched your body, it was almost on fire. Every movement you made, pure raw sex and energy. The men in the room reacted to it. But I see so much more. You are something out of Dionysian myth. You are what men have destroyed countries for. This is what a woman is" And the last entry. "I finally know what the poets tried to explain for centuries but never could. Because you can't put this into words. This real thing. It's tangible yet mythical. It's all consuming. You can't describe it. You can only feel it. And when you do, I only pray it's a fraction of what I feel for her."

As if those words weren’t a grenade in my chest. My hands slowly found my pussy, my eyes still closed as I imagined that night. I moaned softly. Fuck yes. I found myself catching my breath. Moved one finger in slowly, adding another; it still felt too small compared to his dick. More, please. I thrusted my fingers fast back and forth while the other hand grabbed my boobs. “Noah!” I continued going faster and faster, feeling myself come closer and closer. “Yes! Yes! Fuck, Noah, please don’t stop!”

"If you want me to forgive you, then wait three years." He lit up, then faltered. "Why three years?" "I'm going overseas to study. It might take longer. If you don't want to wait—" "I'll wait," he cut in, almost tripping over the words. "If it means you'll forgive me, I'll wait for as long as it takes..." He kept talking, piling promise after promise. However, I didn't listen to any of them. All I heard was him saying, again and again, that he would wait.