Wavelength
Oh how
I wish I was them
The two humans linked together
As one, pressing fingers together, creating
The invisible spark
Shooting across hearts, into starry eyes.
You can practically see how
Their heart beats sync together, until
Every beat is the echo of another.
She breathes out,
He breathes in
Her heart thumps,
His replies, now connected
In the same electrical wavelength
Like man made magic, strummed together
In the heavens above, reenacted on this earth
Below.
And as I see them falling farther
Into the love I crave
I want to hold
Your hand.
Cold Morning
Here I sit in the early hours of the morning
Listening to the birds squawk
And the clocks clang
The world is waking up—
Who said mornings were quiet? Silence was not an action
It is a state of being
I want silence when I wake up next to you
Not any damn birds chirping, but a hushed world
I want to hear your breath and heartbeat in my ears
Like the roaring ocean waves—consistent, never faltering.
Push, pull.
Thump, thump.
But instead, I am alone hearing those goddamn birds
And their happy morning song
While I have nothing but coffee rings
And an aching soul.
Sardines
Subway cars passing like thunder
each with a voice; brakes screaming over each other to be heard.
In the sea of nameless bodies
no one notices one more, clutching on a shoulder strap like an anchor,
trying too hard to be casual.
They don’t know he is
clenching teeth, voice clawing at a closed throat, wanting to howl.
He just has to take one step
after another
like always, traveling home to
wails, shrill as the train’s rails
but from fleshy lips.
Cars slow.
He closes eyes, shutting out
the noise he will hear, sure to echo into the whispers of night.
Bodies shuffle, pushing
into the subway train, getting swallowed and packed like
sardines.
Doors closing—like his eyes, like his heart—
But
she springs in
like a rose pushing up from snow
disrupting the water like a hurricane, jarring
him physically.
Big, shining eyes.
Warm voice. Speaking with
soft, small words and a crooked smile.
The subway lurches.
Stops.
She is gone. But he is still breathing her air
wrapped in the vision of eyes like stars
and scent of sweet smelling hair.
Floating home,
through the daze of misty happiness
seeing nothing but the strange constellations
that patterned in her eyes and the lopsided teeth
behind her petal lips—
lips which did not screech or shout.
Gentle lips.
He returns the next day to the roaring underground storm,
getting off where he last saw that
halo of curls.
Delicate fingers tap on his shoulder, and
he turns
to see her: the rose and the hurricane
beautiful and terrifying.
She felt it, too.
Words can barely pass before
she leaps up and
presses her tender lips against his.
This, he thinks, is why lips were made.
Not for howling, but for
loving.
She takes his hand
and leads him into the car, smashing themselves into
a manmade
sardine can.
* * *
Chrysa Keenon is a student at Taylor University in Indiana, studying Professional Writing. She has been published in various newspapers and magazines, including Changes in Life and Evangelical Church Libraries. Chrysa works on staff on her school’s newspaper, The Echo. She spends the time she is not writing reading and perfecting her knitting skills.
