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.

Orange-glow like

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.

Ephemeral

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