(excerpted From Leila Chatti's Poem: "Tea", Published In Missouri Review)

Unknown // Suzanne Scanlon

Marcel Proust, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Marcel Proust

some days progress feels as small as a single breath drawn in darkness - trembling, uncertain, barely there at all. but remember: even that whispered inhale is the universe continuing its ancient dance through your bones, even that fragile moment is your story refusing to end.

Crows

By Enchanted Journal

the lover’s almanac : part one.

Sometimes it feels like a lie to call myself a poet --

The world is a gorgeous, ethereal place --

All I've ever done is, do my best to use what little words I have to tell you what my eyes have happened to see, and, what my heart has happened to feel.

I'm just another of life's many plagiarists --

Stealing experiences for myself and pretending they're words born from my soul --

So what's the term, then, when the universe's machinations bring me across someone like you, and my heart is filled with so many words that I could write a thousand novels?

A poet?

A thief?

Or simply a woman with a mind, taken, filled to the brim by chance, with desire, need, and affection?

"Could you even describe the warmth of a glowing moon?" V. Rue, 2025.

Sylvia Plath, aged 30, in a letter to her mother, 6 months after discovering her husband's infidelity, and their subsequent separation (dated Wednesday, 16 January 1963)

[Ted Hughes (aged 32) - her husband, who was having an affair with Assia Wevill (aged 35), a married woman who rented their London flat at Chalcot Square; Sylvia moved with their children (a 2-year-old daughter & an 11-month-old son) from Court Green in Devon, to 23 Fitzroy Road in London, at a rented flat, formerly the residence of W. B. Yeats]

𝔠𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔢

nah just cuddling ain't enough, I want to merge my soul with hers

— Barbara Kingsolver