86,400 Clicks around the Clock (Personal)

old vintage clock

It’s funny how I am sitting here now, these twenty-fours hours have passed, and my thoughts have led me on a trail through our university, to the appalachian mountains, across the united states and into the midwest and back around all over just to prove that my intentions of creating a routine path on campus had succeeded. Someone had noticed. I never knew it, but he had noticed me.

 

You see, I don’t really understand why this man had waited until the late summer after his college graduation to profess his liking for me. The pressure we currently feel, from this newfound flirtation that has broken the surface-level intimacy, would have felt easier to deal with if it had emanated in person, over a cup of coffee, as per desired. Yet things do not go how we intend. Now, I am sitting and pathetically waiting to receive an instagram direct message notification, from a man I do not officially know.

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Magnetism (Nonfiction)

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There he is. Every time he walks by it is like his cologne is his ghost, wisping fine, smoky trails that float into the air; am I the only one that can see? His aura has so much of a personality of its own that it seems like there are two of him. His appearance is exceedingly beautiful; his ironed dress shirts elegantly tuck into his dark wash jeans and fall to his brown, leather shoes. His skin looks as smooth as the cappuccinos he says he does not like. His body holds a face that brags of God’s craftiness; on top, his face is capped with dark, evenly cut hair, while a clean chin strap accentuates his jaw line. An espresso brown curls in the irises of his eyes, while the shape of the surrounding skin makes it seem like the eyes themselves are smiling. He walks with a shy, quirky confidence, and his lingering, espresso gaze follows behind his steps like wisping smoke, with his head turned back to watch what I hope is my figure. His figure—superbly more attractive than mine—is built with an established design of muscles that move breathlessly with the fibers in his clothing.

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Two-Day Romance (Personal)

There are times when I wonder why I am like this, why do I do this, why am I hurting from this, why am I becoming attached, why am I continually looking at you and wishing you could see my thoughts in my eyes, why can I not act straight-forwardly, why do butterflies seizure in my stomach when you catch my glance?

Two-day romances hurt like hell. It’s as if our silent attention towards each other screams that neither of our words proved worthy of remembering when we spilled our minds for three hours past midnight.

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Lipogram (Poem)

Creative Writing 5 

souk-6

Sitting by a sandy city’s bistro

at a spot of lunch not long past,

words crumbling from damp mouths

drop strings of stubborn thoughts

as if months of things said had not said truth.

a lack of touch implying an unwant of carrying on

clogs his throat with a swallow of a burning mint drink.

words said burnt through as hot mint slid, burning down his throat.

 

Standing, an instant changing

with a flip of a long, midnight braid stomping away

from a usual lunchstand and pair of chairs.

a crowd sounds as if it was lulling and numb

nothing was auditory but a sound of solid boots

clunking away on a sandy city’s rock path.

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