Waning Crescent in June
On the white rocks,
a breeze caresses my chills.
It highlights the dew
of body heat against midnight.
This time, I’m not blowing out candles.
I’m lighting up spliffs instead.
Each sparking a future fire
that could ruin the rest of my year.
No-strings-attached playing along
as my own puppeteer,
under mushroom netting
with wobble webbed holes.
Shadows adorned in glow sticks
and neon wristbands
carousel around me,
merging into a thudding beat.
Here it comes,
the warmth of another sunrise
like no other.
the hair tie I snap at my wrist
when no one is holding my hand.
When there is no arm around my waist.
Only the wind leaves his salt on my lips.
What Even Is A Year Anymore?
Somewhere, I am standing at your door.
We are taking our first picture.
Somewhere I am always there,
fluffing up clouds for you on my shoulder.
My portraits of you hang at your wedding,
not your funeral.
But here, I drip salt portals on my pillows,
so I can finally take you swimming in the Med.
Mother, I’m gonna be an immigrant.
I can’t keep coming back.
I can’t keep going back.
Stranger, nice to meet you.
I’m only here for a little while.
I’m leaving, come the morning.
Dawn, I’ve come and gone.
Never here, never there,
only somewhere in between.
Louiza Lazarou is a poet from Nicosia, Cyprus. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from the
University of Brighton, and is part of Megan Falley’s Poems That Don’t Suck community. Her workhas been published in Cadences, This Unreal Country, and Sledgehammer Lit.
Instagram @floortimewithloui, Twitter @louiza_poetry