The other night I sat waiting in a coffee shop for a friend. The tables in this particular shop are small, the chairs squeezed to force a sense of closeness. When it is crowded, people squish into booths or hover over tables, grabbing for chairs without looking up as they ask, “Are you using this?”
Yes, yes I am using this chair in front of me. Though no one is seated in it, it represents a person, a sense that I am not alone. The world is in that chair.
I don’t say this, but shake my head in the affirmative then look back down at my book.
But one man was caught, his thoughts shuffling as he stuttered “no.” So there he sat, this man, looking so lonely with his book and his coffee. The world gone with his missing chair; the chance at love, gone. I started to come up with scenarios as to why he was sitting there by himself: He came to write poetry. Ponder over quantum mechanics. Create a superhero identity. To be an island.
Then about twenty minutes later a girl walks by and asks for a chair from a few tables away. She drags it over to the table where the man is sitting. He smiles, says something below the din. She smiles back; it is obvious she is here to see him. He no longer looks lonely. And I realize that the chair can always come back.
An on-the-spot poem about Valentine’s Day
written by Amanda S. (forever my Tank)
Here’s to cheap chocolate
The kind that doesn’t melt in your mouth
Arming naked babies with bows and arrows
Serenading corny sentiments on each date
And maybe even some cheesy songs
But also to all the gifts without bows
Like passionate kisses…yes
Maybe even to love
The kind that stems from hate
Or from the best friend
Or the Valentine’s “love at first sight”
Or Prince Charming
Gone, Here, Now, Fleeting, Forever
Find Amanda at Worldwide Investigation: Amanda at Large.
|A heart my cousin made for me out of beads.|
An on-the-spot piece about sex
pulled from “Sex Story”
written by Anahit T.
He lay across his bed and she was seated right under him with her back to the bed. A placement of their bodies that had occurred once long ago. A placement that was the beginning of them. A placement that had started the sexual cycle that would lead to their inevitable demise. Right now, none of that mattered, not the past or the future they did not see. What mattered was the very peaceful silence that was lingering in the room, and the feeling of want that was already clearly within the two of them.
He brought down his arms, and pulled her up to him and laid her parallel to him across the bed so he could look into her eyes. They both stared at each other for a moment. This was not the first time they had been so close, but something about the whole night had suddenly caused her to panic internally. The warmth he had around him was not just heat, it was an emotional surge that went right into her, and her heart started to steadily beat.
On any other night, there would be music and a very thought out production of the evening inside both of their minds. Sex for them was fun and they had their routine always well planned, if not out loud it was set in their minds. Tonight, it was not about music, it was not about who would start first and how, it was not about sex at all. Tonight it was about the two of them becoming a part of one another, it was about making love. They had not made love in the longest time.
To see the rest of “Sex Story,” or for more writing by Anahit, visit her at Writing.com.
An on-the-spot poem about an uneventful Valentine’s
written by Alexa L. on February 13, 2011
It is just another day,
despite the fact
I want it to be more:
to hold you,
a gymnast’s hands,
feet flat, knees bent,
then snapping up,
your heart pounding applause,
screaming “again, again”
from the stands.