MAGNETIC

By Lataurus Black

What are the limits to our feelings?

Should I be ashamed to think of you? The way your smile curves upward, reaching gently toward the corners of your eyes. The shyness in your touch. The way love radiates the moment you come near me.

I always wonder what pulls me toward you.

Why do my legs yearn to cross over yours? Why does my skin crave the softness of your head resting on my shoulder? And why do my lips long so profoundly to kiss yours softly?

Why do I put myself in your shoes whenever you tell me about your day—reading every subtle expression on your face, allowing me entry into your world, calming your nerves, quieting your thoughts, and bringing you peace?

Why does the world speak words that deny the reasons behind love? If we believe them, these words loosen our grip on the rope of hope. Social media voices persuade young minds to internalize their hurt, leaving them asking, "Why do I feel this way?"

Why?

Why do tears burn when we hold them inside? They are not meant for darkness—they are the rain nurturing parched earth.

Even as her tears fall like April showers, the air cold from winter's last breath, I catch them with my fingertips, unafraid of frostbite. Let her cover me with her scent, her sweat, her storms. Let me drown in her weather.

Time is the cruelest jailer. Seven years in a holding cell while the world changes outside. Seven years of stolen moments—her hand in mine, her scent on my skin, her lips whispering "stay" against mine.

Now, her skin grows fragile as rose petals in autumn, and I am not there to cup her falling body in my palms. This is the crime no court can judge.

I know how time and death dance—each breath-stealing moment, even as you read these words. My love exists in this space, this heartbeat, hoping to warm you like fire in December or the weight of blankets on tired bones.

Imagine me there.

The ant carries its sugar, crushed but still sweet—just as I carry this love, trampled by those who don't understand its language. The butterfly drinks from your skin, seeing the universe in your pores. Even nature knows what the world denies: you are more than your surface.

My skin whispers: there are no limits to this pull.

Call me a fool. Shame me. Still, I press my lips to your shoulder and trace the bow of your mouth with my fingertips. Still, I ask—

Let me kiss you.

WildFire

By Lataurus Black

“Be careful.”

The small voice in the back of my skull whispers, sharp and insistent, like the crackle of distant flames. It’s a voice I’ve learned not to ignore, though I can’t say if it’s mine or something else entirely. “Be careful,” it warns again, “about the sparks that live inside us.”

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The air smells of smoke and ash, and the horizon glows faintly, as if the world itself is holding its breath. The voice is right—I’ve seen what happens when those sparks ignite. They don’t just burn; they consume.

But how do you stop a fire that’s already inside you?

Maybe that’s why we follow words that are empty—without reason, without cause. Like a coat hanging in the closet, waiting for a spring that never comes, there are no stories for the fabric to tell. No texture for the leaves in a forest that’s still growing. No matter the bang, no matter the planets that spin inside us, we are drawn to the void, searching for meaning in the silence.

And yet.

As I stand in the charred remains of the forest, haunted by the memory of the fire, I think of her. The way she looked at me, her eyes unpacking every part of me without words. Her touch held a deeper connection, one that the flames couldn’t burn away. It was as if she could see the sparks inside me—the ones I tried so hard to hide—and instead of pulling back, she reached closer.

Now, surrounded by ash and the faint scent of smoke, I wonder if that’s what love is: not the absence of fire, but the courage to stand in its heat and not be consumed.

Hearts are not meant to be alone. They are fires—wild and untamed, burning with a heat that can both destroy and heal. Like the flames that sweep through a forest, leaving ash in their wake, they clear the way for new growth. But we, in our fear, try to contain them. We build homes where we shouldn’t, hiding behind walls that displace the very nature we depend on. We forget that the ground beneath our feet is not solid, unyielding stone, but something far more fragile—something alive, like kindling waiting for a spark.

And yet, even as we try to control the fire within us, it refuses to be tamed. It burns, not to destroy, but to remind us of what we are: part of the land, part of the cycle, part of something greater than ourselves.

It’s a lesson I now understand, though it came at a cost. I grapple with the loss of love, with the ache of feeling too much and yet never wanting to feel again. The love I once had slipped away in the middle of the night, her mind already gone, her body trailing behind like an afterthought. She left nothing behind, but footsteps pressed into the rusted leaves, fragile imprints on the soil of a world that continues to turn, indifferent to my pain.

In the aftermath, I found solace in the land. My spiritual connection to the earth became a sanctuary, a place to heal. I let my tears fall freely, each drop moistening the roots of my soul, feeding the seeds of a new self-struggling to grow. Please don’t feel sorry for me, I tell myself, even as I watch my fire fade into smoke, rising and dissipating into the indifferent sky.

And yet, how can I not think of the others? The hearts without homes, the tents that line the streets of California like scars on the face of a broken city. Since 1980, the crisis has been there, visible yet ignored. We pass by these faces, hardening ourselves to their vulnerability, to the delicate forms of love and care that nature itself teaches us to embrace.

It’s been five years since my flame ignited. In that time, I’ve learned about nutrient cycling—how each burn clears away dead vegetation, destroys harmful microbes, and makes way for new life. But it wasn’t just the land that needed healing. The fire she left behind burned through me too, leaving me questioning if I was a good person, if I was worthy of love. In the heat of that pain, I couldn’t see the parts of my soul that fed from the flames, releasing their seeds, preparing to grow again.

And yet, even as I tried to rebuild, she struck again. A one-star review on my business, an attempt to destroy what little I had left. As a provider for my family, I dreamed of making a castle out of ashes. But her actions turned that dream into a nightmare, chipping away at my hope until I wondered if I could rise again.

To be a better person. A better father. A better lover. In our essence, fire plays a vital role, not just in the health of the land, but in our own renewal. It burns away what no longer serves us, leaving space for what can grow.

Life, like seeds, is a cycle of healing and scars. I’ve gone back and forth, afraid of the wind, thinking it’s the only way a fire spreads. I didn’t look underground at the hot spots that smoldered in the dark, keeping me awake at night. I protected my oxygen, my fuel, my heat, clinging to the fear that if I let go, the flames would consume me.

But now, I stand here, my eyes fixed on the flames in the distance. The small voice in the back of my mind whispers, “Be careful.” It’s the same voice that warned me years ago, the one I ignored. This time, I listen.

With my heart open, I know that I’m ready again ready to give myself to the heat of the flames. As I stand in the burn, my hands cradle the ashes like a cup, holding the remnants of the old version of me. A person I no longer recognize, their flaws no longer rotting away with time but transformed into something new.

I tumble over the question: How do you stop the fire that burns inside of you? And the truth is, you cannot. The human body is made of 50–75% water, a balance to the fire within. That water nourishes the seeds of our minds, our bodies, our emotions. It quenches the thirst of growth, even as the flames remind us of what we’ve lost and what we’ve gained.

There is beauty in what comes after the burning. A quiet hope lingers in the air, a reminder that each morning your eyes open is a gift. The peaceful sunlight greets you without judgment, indifferent to your pain or the tears that fall like morning dew. The dew surprises your skin with its cold touch, a remnant of the night’s wind that lingers, waiting to fan the flames inside you once more.

And then, she steps into the rusted footprints left behind, erasing what was once a scar—a reminder of love’s pain, a reason to avoid matches and flames. But here she is, entering my eyes, entering my mind, reigniting the fire I thought I’d extinguished. She breathes life into my oxygen, fuels my heat, and I wonder if this is what it means to burn again.

To a man that stands here with no heart or voice even the tilt of the rain looks like fingertips point out into the distances as if space and time are creating fireworks that sparkling the imagination of possibility.

The possibility of finding myself. The possibility of letting go and finding her. She waits in the distance, patient and still, as if she knows the gates I’ve built will open in time. And when they do, she will step inside, her presence a velvet shadow brushing against the edges of my soul, a reminder of what once was and what could be again.

But to let her in is to walk among shadows and death, to face the parts of myself I’ve buried beneath the ashes. Can I bear the weight of her presence, or will the fire she reignites consume me once more?

I question if my heart is truly ready again. Her smile is printed on the back of my eyelids, a vivid image that lingers every time I close my eyes. She feeds me the power of love, the power of belief, even as I wonder if I can trust those feelings again.

Like boats rocking in a storm-tossed sea, my emotions churn and collide. The waves rise and fall, threatening to pull me under, and yet—she is the eye of the storm, the calm where my mind finds peace. She is the morning before the sunrise, the quiet moment before the world awakens. She is the peace in the birds’ songs, greeting the silence of the dust.

She is the wheat growing in fields of weeds, teaching the world how to survive even when darkness covers the land. And still, she stands in the burn, a testament to resilience, a reminder that even from ashes, life can grow.

Even as the world places tariffs over the entry of love, she waits—patient, unwavering, willing to pay the price. While the world pushes to open protected forests, cutting down trees, sweeping away leaves, and destroying trails, her heart needs no path to find me. She stands there, leaving her imprint on my mind, her presence a quiet defiance against the abstract wall that sits between us.

Another morning. Last night, I found myself not sleeping but dreaming—of holding conversations over a warm fire, of two people cradling steaming cups of coffee, their lips brushing the rims as a slight smile follows each crackle of the flames.

How many days have I watched time pass by as she watches me from a distance, her smile glowing like embers? She dances, her beautiful skin catching the light of the burn, a real-life Mona Lisa. A work of art for a man who has given up on love.

And yet, just like the forest regrowth that shades us in the burn, she reminds me that even from ashes, life can begin again.

With each new footstep I take toward her, I create a path for someone else to follow. Her eyes are even wider now, as if she always knew this moment would come. As her face becomes clearer to me, I realize I know her—but not the world she stands in.

The trees around her are alive, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Behind her, a river runs loudly through the canyon, its waters carving a path through the earth. This world is hers, vibrant and untamed, a testament to life’s resilience.

And behind me lies the world I created after the burn—a landscape shaped by loss and renewal, by ashes and the slow, stubborn growth of something new.

Lolo: “You finally came.”

Lataurus: “Yes, I’m here. I owe it to you—you gave me a reason to dream. But why did you wait so long? As days turned to nights and back to days, your smile was the only thing I could make out in the distance. It gave me life.”

Lolo: “I waited because your world wasn’t ready for me to enter. The grounds were still healing, the tides were low, and there was no sun in your clouds. But even then, I could see the beauty in the regrowth of your forest. You might not see it yet, but as far as your eyes can see in my world, this is the renewal after the burn.”

I pause as I look around her world. The wind here feels different—lighter, freer—as it brushes the tips of the leaves. Even her flowers seem to play in the breeze, dancing like children running through an open field, leaping and laughing. For a moment, the leaves forget they are leaves, caught up in the joy of the wind’s embrace.

Before I can say a word, she speaks.

Lolo: “Take my hand and wake up. Enter my world. You’ve let your heart sleep for far too long, holding onto the burn, not letting your sun fully rise to nurture the seeds that lie asleep in your land. Give me your hands.”

She asks again, her voice soft but insistent. “Please, close your eyes and give me your hands.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, I extend my hands without fear. Her touch is warm, and she places something inside them—something light yet full of promise.

“Now open your eyes and look,” she says.

I slowly open my eyes, my vision adjusting to the light. In my hands, I see water, oxygen, and the sun, their colors vibrant and alive.

Lolo: “With these tools, place them onto your heart and begin to breathe life into your world. Forgive yourself. Forgive others. Let the water shape the world around you, let its raging rivers cut through the pain, carving new mountains for your heart to explore. Let it clear the burn and rust that live inside you, feeding the seeds you’ve planted after the fire.

“Let the oxygen breathe new life into your mind, into the silhouette of mountains, so the child inside you can play once again. And let the sunshine over every corner of darkness that hides in your mind, waiting to steal your joy. Let the open fields fill with grass, replacing the dirt and ash with love.

“So, you can build up the strength to wake up and feel love once again.”

She pauses, her eyes searching mine. “Can you feel it?”

My face is wet with tears as my heart inhales her words, my lungs filling with hope.

Lataurus: “Yes,” I say, envisioning her words living inside me. For the first time in years, my hands feel the warmth of hope. I know I gave up—it was the easiest road to take. Why search for a path to life when it’s easier to lay in the burn and let the days go by? To sit and blame others until time runs out. To live in past pain, to find comfort in the unchanging burn, to live without hope of finding love.

But as you sat at the edge of my world, looking in without words, your presence was like hope itself. Even as I pretended you weren’t real, you waited, seeing something in me that was lost to the fire.”

I pause, my voice trembling. “Why did you wait, knocking at my door?”

Lolo smiles, her eyes holding a secret she’s been waiting to share. She looks deeper into me, her gaze piercing through the walls I’ve built.

Lolo: “Give me your hands, just this one last time. Close your eyes and reach into my world. Tell me you’re ready—not with words from your lips, but from the soil of your heart.”

I close my eyes, reaching into the warmth once more. She takes my hands and places them on her heart.

Lolo: “Count to ten with me and slowly open your eyes. Let go of everything in this world.”

I nod, and she begins.

Lolo: “One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten.”

I slowly open my eyes to find myself sitting in a kitchen. The radio plays Al Green’s “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,” and the scent of smoke still lingers in the air. The forest was my prison, but this kitchen—this home—is my sanctuary. The smoke reminds me of where I’ve been, but the warmth of her hands tells me where I belong.

Lataurus: “What… what is this?” I ask, confused.

Lolo: “Home.”

Lataurus: “But how? What was that before?”

Lolo: “Before was real, just like this home is real.”

Her words hang in the air as I try to make sense of it all. She holds my hands tightly, a tear breaking free from her eyes.

Lolo: “Before, I was inside you. For years, I tried to break free from the past, to step out of the rubble and come home. I lived in the burn, talking to your spirit, never giving up even when the world around you were nothing but ashes. I saw what water could reveal the moment I touched your spirit. I knew love lived deep inside you, even when you couldn’t see it. You were missing water and oxygen, but I never stopped believing in you.”

Holding her hands, I feel free from my past. Looking into her eyes—eyes that don’t judge me, eyes that see the good in me—I whisper:

Lataurus: “Thank you… for being my sun. I love you.”

As I sit in the kitchen, the radio playing softly, I feel a strange mix of relief and disbelief. Is this real, or is it another dream? But her hands in mine feel solid, grounding me in this moment. She was my sun, my water, my oxygen—the force that breathed life back into my world when I thought all was lost.

The scent of smoke still fills my nose, a reminder of the burn that once consumed me. But now, it feels different—less like a scar and more like a memory. The forest may have been my prison, but this kitchen, this home, is where I’ve finally found peace.

Lolo: “Can you feel it?” she asks, her voice soft but steady.

I nod, with one hand covering my heart. “Yes. I can feel it. I’m home.”

Wildfire.

The Consumer

The Consumer

By Lataurus

The veil wrapped around me, snug and familiar, like sheets on a cold Sunday morning. Uninvited yet persistent, light slipped through my window—a pale gray bloom spreading across every corner of the room. Soft but inescapable, it touched the walls, the floor, and even the edges of my thoughts.

Her voice came next, low and soothing, like the hum of distant waves.

"Stay," she murmured, almost pleading. "Just a minute more."

It wasn't a command but an invitation, and I found myself sinking deeper, her words as much a weight as they were a comfort.

This was the Spirit of Consumption: a presence veiling my mind, blurring the clarity I sought. She didn't speak of love—she never did. Love wasn't her currency. She dealt in things—objects, fleeting pleasures, hollow victories. And in surrendering to her with each click of "buy now," I realized my heart was emptier every time, even as my room swelled with faded triumphs.

Shelves lined with indulgences crowded my space, and closets overflowed with items I scarcely remembered choosing. Emotions lay hoarded like a dragon's treasure, guarded yet unexamined. From the comfort of my bed, I watched these emotions parade before me, searching for the most authentic version of myself amidst the clutter.

I saw that self crouched behind endless subscriptions and notifications, hands clutching fistfuls of Earth, trying to break free. How did I end up in this pine box in the first place? I wondered, gripping an imaginary touch-screen shovel in my right hand while glancing at alerts that vied for my time.

As I browsed, I dug deeper into a bottomless void, realizing there might be no actual floor beneath my feet here on Earth. Japan seemed impossibly distant—like the memories of her smile or the missing gaps of time I'd traded for scrolling. The Spirit whispered again: Another drop, so lovely, so fleeting. In a heartbeat, I forgot the shoes I'd bought in three consecutive weeks, each pair a different color but adding the same emptiness to my closet.

Apple Vision Pro: $3,500 plus tax.

A trip to Norway: $3,000.

But to see the northern lights reflected in her eyes? Priceless.

I wished you could see her as I did—how the moonlight kissed her peanut butter skin, soft and warm, rippling like ocean waves that moved without care. She had no price tag, no "buy now" or "pay later." Like water, she was fluid, free, and untamed, like the wild horses running across Wyoming's windswept plains.

A shared life, I realized, is a rope thrown into the depths of our souls, something we can grasp only if we find the courage to love. Yet love has its own cost—not in dollars, but in presence, in time. Forsaking it for screens, gadgets, and frantic purchases sent a flood over the world inside me until I became a dead man floating, adrift among reasons that no longer mattered.

"Do you want more?" she asked again, her voice as steady as my doubt.

I wanted to say no.

But how do you tell the Spirit of Consumption that what you want—what you need—isn't hers to give? Each of her gifts came with the debt of losing myself further, like those who've sacrificed their lives over a pair of shoes or those who've chased social status until they became strangers in their own mirrors.

In that same mirror, I found my reflection hidden under layers of dust and cracks, my thoughts bound by chains, the unspoken addiction of wanting more. The fire burning inside me was a pit where I'd tossed my emotions until nothing but ashes remained. Time, left to false desires, built the very bed on which I lay.

And yet, my heart still beat for more somewhere within—just not the more sale pitches or blinking billboards, limited-edition drops, or the slightly faster phones. I'd forget not the monthly subscriptions, the yearly price hikes, or the YouTube influencer peddling freebies with a plastic grin. Not the single guy hawking his course on speaking to women like a commodity.

Even as the Spirit of Consumption played her soft medley in the halls of my mind, love sat idle, letting me swim in the unfulfilling victories of every want I mistook for need. Each click, each purchase, carried a cost—a loss of time, a loss of meaning, a loss of the love I'd left waiting.

The truth weighed heavy in the air: love asks for vulnerability. Vulnerability means shedding the veil and exposing what lies beneath—the hollowness that chokes us when we stop devouring distractions. It means stepping beyond the comfort of consuming and into the unknown to leave footprints in the sand alongside someone, hand in hand, as twilight falls.

The moon's fire flickered gently, a soft counterpoint to the sun's candle fading on the horizon. Love leaned back into my arms while Earth's energy released in a hush, blessing us with a dance of shimmering light—emerald, rose, and violet painting the sky. No words intruded here, no TV hummed with ads, only the waves of love we willingly consumed together.

I know I cannot change the past. I also know the Spirit of Consumption will never leave this room entirely. She is part of me, as I am part of her. The power of over-needing is a choice—a war I may not win, but I can still fight by deciding what to feed. Making my way into the kitchen, I felt my smile return. My love sneezed at the scent of cracked pepper, and with a playful remark, I savored her grin. We consumed laughter together, not the empty kind but the kind that fills the soul.

This is the consumption that breathes life into me. In my heart, running, playing, staying young, living freely, and genuinely loving hold the highest value. I hope you find your own path as your eyes travel these lines.

Consumptions.

Capricorn Kisses

In and out.

Every time my eyes close, she's there—living, breathing, unbroken. Even the scars on her face carry a story etched into her like fragile truths. Battle-worn and bruised, the night still haunts me, its shadow stretching across my mind. My eyes burn as I relive these tattooed memories, branded into me as if time itself refuses to heal them.

I wanted to fight.

But I was just a kid, weighing 130 at best, too light for that night's weight. Memories hang like picture frames in my mind, suspended without walls, without eyes to admire their colors. The sky stretches across them, textured and alive, with a sun that sits there as if it couldn't care less.

The waves of that moment pull me in, swallowing me whole and trapping my breath in a sea of tears that never stop leaking. Even now, I feel like I'm drowning, my soul treading water as that frame—still and unmoving—holds the pieces of me I'll never reclaim.

Some memories never fade.

Some nights never end. And some kisses—Capricorn kisses, born from moments of pain—cling to you forever. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days. Time keeps moving, but its weight doesn't lighten.

I've learned to stop questioning mistakes, though they linger like shadows in the corners of my mind. I make the bed of hurt each morning, only to lie in it again, waking to the same ache. The flood of it never ceases, even as the months bleed into years.

My smile is the blood of my tears, a mask I wear to hide the hurt.

I'm not ashamed to say I've found peace—not because I've found answers, but because the questions lead nowhere. Grief is a quiet thief, slipping into the cracks of your soul, stealing your breath in the dead of night. It doesn't ask permission. It doesn't knock. It moves in, rearranging everything inside you until you no longer recognize who you are.

As I stand before the man in the mirror, the one who so quickly hides from the world, I wonder—how much longer can I keep up this disguise? I find peace in exchange for grief—the price I pay for living with the thief.

They left her there.

Crumpled on the pavement, as if she didn't matter. But she did. She was everything to me—my big sister. I ran to her, tears clouding my vision, my hands trembling as I tried to wipe the blood from her face.

Her pain lingers in me, a taste my heart can't forget. Even now, I wear a mask of smiles, day after day, waiting—hoping—for someone to look beyond the lights, the sun, and the waves and truly see me and the questions written deep inside me.

What's the reason?

Evil comes to us in the heat of moments we can never take back. Two against one—it's easy to inflict pain when you feel no resistance when the weak seem powerless beneath your fists. But they didn't just beat her that night. They beat me, too, deep down inside. I felt every blow in my soul, each one carving a question I still can't answer.

How do you live a happy life knowing the lives you've broken and the innocence you've left shattered along the road? Is it really so easy to forget when you're the one causing the pain?

I wonder sometimes—does the blood of the weak still linger, dry and unseen, under the nails of the hangman? Or does it haunt them in the silence when they're alone, staring at their reflection?

What did they gain?

They tore through a young mind, leaving it to heal in fragments. And here I am, alone in a world that denies karma's existence—until the pain finally comes knocking on their doorstep.

They find God in their older age, standing at the pulpit, asking for forgiveness. On their knees, they weep while others cheer and sing praises, their voices rising like smoke in the bright light of redemption. But even as the light shines, the clay begins to crack.

The heat from our shadows—the truths we bury deep—has found us. In its hand, it carries tokens of hell, pain, and disruption, trading them in for the seeds of karma, now scattered across the fields of their past.

Where the truths we bury can no longer hide, they rise, demanding to be seen.

Knock, knock.

My memories are at the door.

The pain of that night still knocks—seconds into minutes, minutes into hours. Days bleed into months and months into years. We can never outrun who we are or the hands that have shaped us.

I think of the long walks to school, our laughter, and how my big sister made me feel loved when the world refused to see me. Even as the world turned on her, even as she lay in bed with stitches marking her face, love still lived in her heart.

The rocks thrown into her waters never skipped—they never offered others a chance to steal her joy or make a wish at her expense. No, love still lives inside her! It's unshaken, resilient, a flame that refuses to be extinguished.

Burning Eyes

My eyes burn as I write this—I miss her. We live in different states now, our lives pulling us in opposite directions, yet our bond grows stronger with time. Maybe that's why that night lingers with me like a shadow waiting for me to notice its silhouette in the darkness.

It feels as if it's trying to strip away the good inside me, to scorch the light I carry. Maybe the world itself is conspiring to erode my spirit, to close my eyes to the goodness in others.

But I won't let it.

Her Smile

Her smile gives me hope and strength, a reminder that fear will not live inside my heart. I acknowledge the pain of my past, the pain I've caused others, and the captivity of my own mind.

But my passion knows no walls, no confines. It refuses to be caged. So, I choose to step beyond these self-imposed barriers, walking freely into the vastness of possibility, where healing and purpose await.

Where Her Spirit Lives

I reach inside myself, letting my loved ones know that I love them. I call my sister just to hear her voice. Even as the phone rings, I smile, knowing the sound of her tone will warm me. I wish she knew how much I love her. How the pain she's endured still lives within me, etched into my soul like a scar, I carry for her.

The gift she gives to the world is the love and fire she's placed in her little brother. Scars make us who we are; this flesh is only temporary, melting back into the dirt with each passing day. No one can outrun their past. From generation to generation, our community shapes the conditions of our future.

One day, even the hangman will feel the sting of burning tears. I know this truth: pain waits for us all, no matter our colors or backgrounds.

Every Second, Every Minute, Every Hour

I plant new rose seeds, filling my lungs with the scent of the earth. The slightly sweet aroma of pine trees, tall as the walls I've built to keep people out, mingles with the rich, damp scent of soil and decomposing leaves after the rain. It is us—our bodies, our minds—as the days pass. Sometimes, I wonder: Does the forest ever look back after a burning? Or is the fire simply a cleansing, a beginning of something new?

Placing my feet firmly against the tree trunk, I find myself drawn to the healing power of nature. This tree is steady, alive, and rooted deeply in the earth. Yet again, I stand here, always afraid to climb, even as the sunlight dances at the top of the gray skies where I've lived most of my life. No wonder I've learned to love the rain, the cold, the snow—every element of grief.

I see her face—my sister's face—her smile, her eyes, her warmth. The heartbeat of the tree fades with each pull, replaced by something more substantial: her voice.

"Lataurus, you're almost there. Don't close your eyes. Don't look down. Look up and feel the sunrays of hope."

And I climb.

The blows, the pain—they're still there, etched into my memory. But the weight of that pain is gone. I no longer live in that moment, even though my tears remain tattooed on my eyes.

Now, I sit among the clouds, feeling the warmth of the sun's rays, and for the first time, her spirit no longer cries. She rests in my arms, and I tell her, with all the love I've carried through the years, "I love you."

Her gentle hand traces the crust of my dried tears, and in that moment, she holds me—not just as her little brother, but as someone who has climbed out of the shadows we both once shared. She kisses my spirit, and with her love, the weight I've carried begins to lift.

Capricorn Kisses

French Vanilla with Black Coffee

By Lataurus Black

I sit in the middle of nowhere, gazing out the window of a small café on Seattle’s outskirts. My hand rests against the frosted glass, the chill seeping into my fingertips, creating a canvas for emotions I can no longer contain. Fall embraces the world outside, as the leaves are pirouetting to the ground, and the warmth of summer makes its slow retreat. I watch as cream swirls into the darkness of my coffee, forming delicate patterns that stir memories from a time when innocence was all I knew.

You stood before me then, dressed in black, your hair pulled back into a ponytail with curls spilling over your eyes. For a moment, your face was a mystery—a world hidden behind the sun, blinding those who dared to look past the stars and into the moon’s light. As a child, my heart made a silent promise in that instant. You let me glimpse your stars, pass your moon, and touch your spirit. You held your heart in your hands, and the scent of fresh cream softened the edges of mine, revealing love to me for the first time.

The aroma of caramel rises from my cup like the bloom of a rose, inviting me to savor its essence. I lift it to my nose, breathing in your unspoken message—a message of belief, of seeing something in me that I struggle to see myself. Each morning, the reflection in the mirror hides behind its mask, never revealing the person I am. But you saw through it all: the weight I carry, the pain, the strength, and the fear.

We sit together now in the cozy corner of this café, the rain tapping gently against the window, its cadence lifting the heavy hands of stress that cling to me. Each drop seems to extinguish the smoldering fields of anxiety within, clearing my mind like a cleansing breath.

You tap your cup lightly, pulling me back from what felt like mere minutes of reflection, though an hour has quietly slipped away. I had been lost, gazing into another world—a place where my love has always lived, hidden from the wandering eyes of the big city.

Leaning back in my chair, I cradle the mug of black coffee in my hands, watching the steam rise and curl into ethereal shapes. The gentle hint of caramel intertwines with my thoughts. Your smile is the backdrop to this moment, framed by the autumn rain slowly turning into snow.

Lataurus: “Do you ever wonder why black coffee is always the base? Why is everything added to it, yet it never truly changes?”

You smile, stirring your French caramel latte in slow, deliberate circles. Your eyes meet mine—soft yet piercing, like the sweetness that lingers after a sip.

Lolo: “Maybe it’s because black coffee is strong enough to stand on its own,” you reply thoughtfully, “but it still leaves room for sweetness to blend in, to add something new without losing itself.”

You pause, your gaze holding mine as your voice softens.

Lolo: “Maybe that’s why I fell in love with you. I remember the day we met—something about you felt different. It wasn’t just the conversations or the way you smiled. It was how you let me peek inside, even when you didn’t realize it.”

A gentle laugh escapes your lips as you cover your mouth, eyes drifting to a memory that warms your heart.

Lolo: “You were so shy when we first met. Do you remember? You ran away like you thought I could see right through you. It was so endearing.”

You lean forward, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lolo: “Even then, I saw the purity in your heart. Even if you couldn’t see it yourself back then.”

I smirk softly, taking a slow sip. The warmth of the coffee spreads through me, but your words stir something deeper, awakening feelings I’ve long kept buried. My heart swells with gratitude as memories of our childhood surface—when the world seemed darker, and you were the first to see me truly.

You found me then, a young boy lost in the bustling streets of Miami after your family moved from Paris. You looked at me without judgment, without fear. In your eyes, I felt seen for the first time.

Lataurus: “And what about the cream?” I ask, my eyes searching yours. “Do you think it changes when it touches the darkness?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully, a curl falling across your face. You tuck it behind your ear—a familiar gesture that tightens my chest.

Lolo: “No,” you say gently. “It doesn’t change. It’s still cream, still sweet. But it brings out something different in the coffee. Makes it softer, warmer, maybe even more comforting.”

The rain outside continues its soft murmur, filling the space between us. I study you, letting your words settle in my heart. I feel a shift within me, like a gentle stir in the still waters of my soul.

I whisper to myself, almost inaudibly, “Love is patient; love is kind.” It’s what I feel when I look into your eyes—the quiet truth of a love that has always been there, waiting.

Lataurus (thoughts):

Every time we talk, and I look into your eyes, it’s like you’re stirring my coffee—mixing things inside me that I didn’t even know were there. I’ve lived my life thinking I needed to stay strong, to keep everything black and straightforward. But with you… everything softens.

I lean forward slightly, vulnerability threading through my voice.

Lataurus: “I never learned how to love. All my life, I’ve questioned whether two souls can truly coexist. Whether love can hold us together or if it just tears us apart.”

Turning my gaze to the window, the rain is easing my mind. I exhale slowly, the tension unraveling with each breath. The gray clouds outside feel like a portal open only for this fleeting moment—waiting for love to enter.

Lataurus: “I find it ironic,” I muse. “People don’t believe in God but believe in love—a love built with no foundation, destined to crumble. My parents didn’t make it. But here I am, sitting with you, looking into the place where I’ve anchored my heart. Trusting that the walls we’ve built will stand tall through any storm.”

You watch me over the rim of your cup, sensing the hesitation of the guarded walls I’ve constructed. You’ve seen them before but also know what’s hidden behind them.

Lolo: “Sometimes we mistake fragility for weakness,” you say softly. “But I think it’s in those fragile places where real beauty lives. That’s where the truth of who we are hides.”

You pause, your fingers tracing the rim of your cup.

Lolo: “Maybe that’s why, when we first met, I couldn’t see into your spirit right away. But when I placed my ear to the locked door, I felt what you were hiding in the shadows. The power of your heart pulled me closer—closing the gap, no matter the miles between us.”

I watch you, captivated by how your words peel back layers I thought were impenetrable. A quiet sigh escapes me, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

Lataurus: “You make it sound so easy,” I say, my voice tinged with wonder. “Like letting go is just a matter of choice.”

You sit silently for a moment, then rise gracefully, your latte forgotten. Moving to the counter, you refill our cups, the fresh steam rising like a new beginning. Your gaze drifts to the window, to the silhouette of the mountains melding softly with the clouds.

Returning, you place the cups on the table and lean in, your eyes meeting mine with unwavering resolve.

Lolo: “Letting go isn’t easy. Love isn’t easy either, especially when the world paints pictures of destruction and calls it real.”

Your voice softens, yet strength underpins every word.

Lolo: “But this moment, right here, is real. I knew from when you kissed me to when you told me you loved me. Your lips were more than just lips, and your words were more than just words.”

You pause, your gaze never wavering.

Lolo: “You gave me something I didn’t even know I needed. A reminder that love isn’t about perfection or easy answers. It’s about moments like this, where everything feels raw and uncertain, but somehow, it’s enough.”

You reach across the table, your hand covering mine.

Lolo: “Close your eyes, Lataurus. Tell me, what world do you see without me?”

I hesitate but comply, letting my eyelids fall shut. The café fades, and a portal opens within—a doorway into my mind. I see myself in a chaotic world: overcrowded roads, decaying buildings, screens flickering with hollow faces. Amidst the noise and decay, you’re nowhere to be found.

Lataurus (thoughts):

All this time, when I looked within, you were never here. How did I get lost in a place without you?

As I step forward, I feel a pull from deep inside, as if the broken pieces of my heart are rearranging. Then I see you—not outside, but within me—smiling as if you’ve always been there, waiting to be found.

When I open my eyes, the café comes back into focus. The rain has softened to a drizzle, and the warm light feels brighter.

You’re watching me, your gaze calm yet curious.

Lolo: “What did you see?” you ask softly.

A tear escapes my cheek as I lift my hand to the frosted glass, tracing the outline of a heart. Turning back to you, I whisper,

Lataurus: “A world without love and possibility. Like the cream and coffee in my cup, you always show me what is contained in my cup. I don’t want to see a world if you are not a part of me.”

Your smile radiates warmth as you squeeze my hand gently. Our silence is quiet but alive with unspoken truths.

The café fades around us—the quiet chatter, the clinking of cups, the hum of the espresso machine. All I can feel is her hand in mine, the rain outside, and the walls I’ve built trembling under the weight of her presence.

Lataurus: “You scare me,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

Her eyes search mine, her gaze soft but unyielding. For a moment, I see a flicker of vulnerability there—something raw, something honest.

Lolo: “You scare me too,” she says, her voice steady yet tinged with emotion. “But maybe that’s the point.”

I hold her gaze, feeling the tension in my chest unravel with every second. The rain continues to fall, steady and unrelenting as if the world outside knows we need this time. Her hand tightens around mine, and her warmth seeps into me like cream greeting coffee, melting the edges of my carefully constructed defenses.

Lataurus: “What if we can’t do this?” I ask, my voice quieter now, almost drowned out by the rhythm of the rain. “What if we blend too much and lose ourselves?”

Lolo: She tilts her head, her fingers brushing over the back of my hand. “What if we blend just enough to become something better? Something we could never be alone?”

I blink, her words sinking into the depths of my guarded heart.

Lataurus: “It’s hard for me to let go,” I admit. “I’ve been holding on so tightly to this… to myself.”

Lolo: “I know,” she whispers. “But you don’t have to hold on alone anymore.”

Her words are like the rain—soft, steady, and relentless, washing away the doubts that cling to me. I glance toward the window, where the cold wind plays with the falling rain, giving even the storm a sense of purpose.

Lataurus: “What if we fail?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

Lolo: She leans closer, her presence grounding me. “And what if we don’t? What if this—us—is what we’ve been searching for all along?”

For the first time in years, I wonder what it might feel like to blend—truly blend—with someone else. I want to let down the walls and let someone see every part of me. There are no masks, no pretense. Just black coffee and French vanilla swirled together, creating something neither of us could ever be alone.

I squeeze her hand gently, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

Lataurus: “You think we can do this?”

Lolo: Her smile deepens, her eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t think. I know. And even if it’s not perfect, it’ll be ours.”

I exhale slowly, the tension melting away like the last remnants of ice in a warm drink. Even the wind outside feels softer, the rain carrying a sense of peace. We sit there, words fading into silence, just us now—two hearts blending, learning to beat as one.

For the first time, I knew I was the coffee, and she was my cream.

The Echo of Christmas Past

What program is playing in your heart? How did it harden the things that once brought you joy? Do you remember the toy plane soaring through the sky, the broom you rode as a horse? How did the changing seasons evoke wonder as you smelled the fresh pine and felt the soft touch of snow falling from the sky?

Those feelings are now hidden behind walls you've built, a consequence of the program playing in your heart. The soft echoes of laughter and stories from your past remind you of love.

The creaky floorboards whisper beneath your feet as you tiptoe toward the tree, each step echoing in the stillness of the night. The lights twinkle like tiny stars, casting a warm glow that fills every corner of the room and seeps into your soul. For a moment, you're that child again, wide-eyed and breathless, standing in the magic of possibility. The sight of gifts wrapped with care, the scent of pine lingering in the air—it's as if the joy you once knew, the innocence you thought had slipped away, has returned, wrapping itself around your heart like a soft, familiar embrace.

At this moment, the tape has stopped. The door that was once closed is open, and you've found yourself once again. You place your hand on your heart. Can you feel it? It's your forgotten story of Christmas.

Whispers in the Mountains

Why do I study her? These are the questions I always ask myself. Deep down, I want to know what her heart thinks. Is it me or the problems of her day?

Her fingertips tracing the rim of a coffee mug made of recycled materials reminds me that souls can be reborn repeatedly. Even when we don’t realize it, our faces are changing. Some grow softer, and some harden with time. Her face remains as lovely as it was the day I first saw her—the softness of the outline of her cheeks.

How many years have I kissed them? To this day, I cannot see myself living without her. It’s a true blessing to know love. The steam rises from her coffee, lifting itself from the mug and filling her nose. Like a rose, she takes in the scent of the black coffee. As she closes her eyes, savoring the aroma, I wonder if she’s breathing in the moment or searching for something more profound—something her heart has yet to reveal.

When my eyes first met hers, I fell in love with the young girl from the small town of Lyon, France. Now, 30 years later, the song her eyes play still gives my heart reasons to dance slowly around the fire of desire.

To desire her is remembering that the world often believes love isn’t tangible. But thinking so steals the most precious thing we have: time. Time has shown me that love, in its purest form, isn’t measured by moments that slip away but by the memories we create in the spaces between.

It’s like cream greeting coffee, mixing sweetness with bitterness, letting your taste buds run wild like wild horses in the mountains of Spain. Love cannot be explained, nor do I want it to be. You don’t find love by scrolling through screens or images on a feed.

It’s in the quiet sunsets of November when the cold air pushes us closer, and her warmth becomes the fire that burns within my thoughts as the first snow begins to fall, sending a chill in the air, giving us a reason to light the fireplace. With my eyes closed, I let the crackle from the fire take me away, outside my body. I reflect on my heart being lost in the wild, with no trail or path to find myself.

I was lost under the stars, feeling the world’s vastness as I sat beneath the dark blue sea, trapped in the pattern of not being seen. I was sinking without a life vest, my head submerged within my depths, my soul reaching out, feeling the breeze from the air as I sank deeper into the ocean’s bliss. My ears were filled only with the hum of the water filter, a vibration that seemed to reach for my spirit.

So even when I couldn’t see it, I knew my heart deserved love, even if my eyes couldn’t recognize it. There lived the hum in the darkness of night, chasing the stars away from the city lights and into the silhouette of the mountains. The beat that only I could hear came from the tapping on the trees, as if the branches were trying to get my attention, or from the flicker of the flames, where the tranquility of time stands still.

In these moments, I learned to appreciate life’s little things—the sounds surrounding me, creating a calmness filled with power. Clearing my eyes, that’s how I found you. From the moment I first saw you, there was a power in emotion that I had never felt before.

Like the raspiness of a saxophone or the soulful sounds of Otis, I’ve often wondered why he sang the way he did—so full of heart. The lovely floral scent of fresh tulips is reminiscent of other flowers but somehow more vibrant, like you. You blended in so well with others, yet yours was the only face I saw in a room full of strangers. Their scent could not fool me; as you stood there, my heart was captivated.

Even without ever hearing your voice, I heard you. Your spirit reached toward me, pulling me away from my problems and lifting my head above the waters. I realize now that you were always the hum, the flicker of flames burning bright, waiting to be placed within me. You were there to warm my bones from the cold as I sat by the sea. You were always the stars that lit up the dark blue sky.

The current that pulls me to safety eases my thoughts of stress as your waters wash over me. Maybe that’s why I study her—or perhaps how her fingertips trace over my lips, making me always want to know what her heart is thinking.

Love is reborn, running wild in the mountains of Spain. Two hums flicker in the dark—a love beyond explanation, and nor should it be.