By Carol Khorramchahi

Time is known to heal all wounds
And it would – if only it could
Yet, these wounds you’ve made cannot be healed
With permanent scars they have been sealed

Locked inside is all the pain
That cannot be washed out even with the heaviest rain
If only you could feel how deep I’ve immersed
But I wouldn’t wish that upon even the cursed

A dagger that stabs my heart
And pricks it every second till it tears apart
Like a flower whose petals have died
This love cannot be revived

Though for you my heart weeps a river of blood
You are not to be blamed for this flood
I don’t know what’s worse
Drowning beneath the waves
Or dying from the thirst

We are met each day
By both unwavering belief 
And debilitating fear 
One on each shoulder
And oh do they love to cheer

We often turn away
And close our hearts
To the promise of love,
Led astray

For the past has taught,
Not be caught
In what is not
Worth pursuing

However, if we dare
To jump over the crater of uncertainty 
That lies in our mind
We open the heart
Bare, raw, kind

People tend to ask
Does love have a meaning?
To imprison it, a daunting task
Turns out it doesn’t matter
As long as it doesn’t shatter

What scares us though,
Is that the heart makes no noise,
When it breaks.


By Elisa Uccello

The walls would have pictures
of you, in your favorite blue shirt.
Maybe it was grey.
The color got lost somewhere
like us.

Behind broken glass, letters
I wrote but never sent.
Would you have read them,
under the stars,
to find out I love you?

Is love an art?

A wooden hanger
would hold the shirt I gave you.
That room would smell like you;
like hugs, and smiles, but sometimes
like yearning.

Does love have a meaning, or is it
the meaning?
It doesn’t matter
as long as it’s real.

In the furthest end of the hall
there would be a room; but
the door would always
be locked.
Inside, the things I fear.

You can’t go in, or maybe
you’re already there,
and I’m not.

Either way,
I’m the prisoner.

Did we discover love
or did we invent it?
Or does it not exist
outside of our minds?
I walk around,
entering and leaving
heart full of rooms,
rooms full of art, hoping.

Maybe one day,
I’ll see you in my museum.
Then I’ll leave,
so you can have it.

It was always meant to be yours.