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.