• Art by Aya Bitik


    This is all you.This is me missing you through the seasons. I wonder how you remember me.I wonder what you felt when I kissed your neck. — Talk to me, artist. Utter a word. I will listen and watch your mouth move, with you looking deep within me to see whether it’s worth it after all. Talk to me, artist. I am here only to witness the wonder of you. And write on how you churn me within. Let me cling on to how you pronounce every word with the finality of a cliff, only to start a new word and again, like leaping off and into the clouds. Talk…

  • Amanda Charchain

    An Old Intrigue

    I like the fact that she cared. The way her face lit up at the slightest hint. I was impatient. She was fierce. Our love was a hot molten mess. And we licked it right off. Ate each other out. Bit off each other and burnt through the nights. And healed through gentle peppery morning kisses. Peppermint. Enough has been written about what she made me feel, enough to make me fall in love again. And perhaps remember what made us fall out. It still wrings me inside, twists and throws me against the walls of my own words. Emotional masturbation, as Nin Andrews puts it. Bright eyes, and brown.…

  • Joel and Maggie Bear

    Kind morning, full of love.

    I cannot begin to describe the skies here.Vast and endless, hues turning to blue and darker right above.It is a new painting everyday, a new photograph, how many to capture?It is a new limerick, a new rhyme and new pair of words.It is a new face everyday, a new wrinkle and a newish smile.This city gives me a new morning everyday,Below these vast and endless and ever so blue skies. Today morning, I woke up in the mistAll around me, to the left and right, above and below.And the sun lay right there, floating, as ifDaytime, I suppose, but what of the mist?These dreamy milky love-filled swirls? The skies do…

  • anon

    A perfect lover

    An apple ripens, a flower blooms and withers, water freezes and melts, wind comes to a standstill, wine becomes wholesome, a song becomes a memory, a kiss becomes softer with age. I have loved ‘perfect’ women, and they changed. And I changed. We didn’t know what perfect was anymore. I gravitate towards disarming dents, scars of war, fierce rage and undying thirst for what lies ahead. It’s an eternal all-consuming fire, as a person molts, breaking through her own past self. Few things matter. And she is far from perfect, she is flawed, she screams, she cries, she is afraid, she doubts, she loves with abandon, loyal to a fault,…

  • Painting by Chris IG // @blablabla.art


    “Pretend you are playing me, Chet.”She said, as the jazz genius made love. May I write you? It is a feast. I gather everything there is and everything there will be. Imagine entire worlds crashing down and trees shooting up from the ground and skies melting into gold and little sparkles of light exploding into stars around you. Imagine this. This is you, when I eat you. I hold you tight. I hold you right. Imagine blankets of mornings and smells of Sundays. With sincere vigour, my tongue and fingers, attempt to slowly but surely describe what this moment means to us. We communicate non verbally, and we pick out…

  • Love

    Like a Bird

    I hold us with an open hand.As she lays wet and heavy, poignant.Like an evening sky, twilight.But you can neither tell how black is the nightnor how light is the dawn. She promises sincere mischief,whatever that means.She clasps like a lover.She bites like a mistress.She promises she will kiss the old me.And asks whether I will kiss the old her. I hold her with an open hand.She eats me whole. — I have been looking at things wrong.Like a bird in the sky,as wide and as high I can,but only as wide and only as high I can. She flies elsewhere, rides the winds I do not follow.She jumps into…