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Book of Hours: Poems

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Kevin Young

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“Carefully, he twisted the clasp, securing it to my wrist before brushing his thumb across my knuckles. “Do you like it?” Did I like it? No. I loved it. Loved it so much I couldn’t utter a word. I could only stare at it, even if my vision swam and I’d suddenly suffered an allergic reaction that made my eyes leak. I wasn’t crying. I was simply expelling excess saltwater. From my eyes. Which some people might’ve thought were tears. But they weren’t. I. Was not. Crying. “Holly?” “Yes,” I croaked, my voice sounding like a squeaky hinge. “It’s beautiful. I’m not crying.” “I didn’t say you were.” I could hear the amusement in Kye’s voice, even if I couldn’t look away from the damn bracelet on my wrist. “You were thinking it.” “It does look like you’re crying.” “I’m not. It’s water retention in reverse.” Kye and my family chuckled before he said, “I don’t think it works that way.” “It does,” I insisted, swallowing repeatedly and sniffling. “I’m sure of it.” I’m a mess. A complete and utter mess.”

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Book:While You Were Creeping
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“With eyes still closed, Helen sensed Stuart drawing nearer. Perhaps it was his breath upon her skin, though it seemed to her more than that. It was as if their very souls extended their bodies by only tiny degrees, and now even though their flesh didn’t touch, their spirits did. She felt him in a way that was real, yet could not be measured, like how an echo can have a voice without having a mouth. She felt him in the heartbeats and the gaps between each, felt the air charged between them, felt the ache of her skin to have what their souls had found. To be touched, and to touch. Then with the softest trace of his lips, Helen felt her tears kissed away. One, two, three of them, and he stopped. For a second, she was still, wondering if he would go on, if his lips would find her own, but only the roar of the wind came.”

LoveTearsConnectedKissIntimateSoulsSenseWantingClose
Book:The Ocean's Daughter :
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“There was also the church where my aunt’s funeral had been held. I remembered standing over her open casket and looking at her lifeless body. She had looked so peaceful. Although it was a great tragedy for the people at the funeral that she was gone, some of them even openly weeping over her, in truth, death was only a tragedy to those left behind. For her, all her problems were over. For the people weeping over her, something valuable had been taken from their life without their consent. Their tears were born from selfishness.”

DeathTearsSelfishnessFuneralAntinatalism
Book:The Nihilist
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