I think of you with the most
excruciating tenderness.

~Vladimir Nabokov

Laura Makabresku

ㅤ

This work © 2026 by Lee Zimmerman is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International

Love poem

I got a little lost, but it doesn't matter, because you may have come along, and now we're both lost.

Franz Kafka, 1920.

Photo of a sculpture resembling a light brown deer walking left, its antlers extend into branches and leaves, all against a grey background

Petal deer, 2012 by Ellen Jewett, sculptor known for her often surreal depictions of animals #WomensArt

and I am slipping, slipping inside your skin, humming softly against your throat, stroking caged birds to life, murmuring words only you can decipher, the insistent, quickening wing beat, the throb of a pulse under feather

In all my softest dreams you are on your knees.

Across a day I imagine you in a thousand ways

you hide there
inside the scent of roses

I want to slip inside your skin; to be you. To feel what you feel. To know you as intimately as I know myself. To lie in the grass next to you and read The Mill on the Floss together.

I am scattered
seeds blowing
on a cold spring breeze

Dying of longing, my soul hollowed out

Rose.

© Michael Hoppen

Jana Sojka

I want to wake to a soft dream

"I loved being loved: the bleakness of my future terrified me."
Simone de Beauvoir, Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter

Un jour viendra où le soleil éteindra sur moi sa lumière et se lèvera pour faire de toi le nouveau roi. La vie sans être amoureux, c'est la destruction, c'est passer à côté de quelque chose d'essentiel comme le soleil ou la mer.

~Paul Éluard

The Sleeping Draught.
Stephen Mackey

poetry lives in the touch of hands.

photograph green moss on stone- dark shapes loom, as if with wings

Everything, everything seemed once-upon-a-time.

Haruki Murakami

Hope is a passion for the possible.

Søren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling

― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Unfolding.

© Kiss Andrea

L'amour, c'est l'espace et
le temps rendus sensibles
au coeur. 

~Marcel Proust

My Year in Paris with Gertrude Stein, Deborah Levy

Katia Chausheva

Wandering bookshops, aching for the touch of your hand