The apocalypse on a rainy Sunday afternoon
The apocalypse on a rainy Sunday afternoon:
nothing should hurt more than
having to hear about God in the sermon then
getting the wrong toy from the McDonald’s drive through
; but then we move
and then you cheat
and then you leave
and then we move again;
It’s harder to capture the rage of words unsaid or swallowed
like the most bitter apple cider vinegar on the tongue of a newly brushed mouth
than to overly analogize it
The fact that I love you matters the least
breaks me like a vase thrown from the third story apartment window
like the hotness of a sweat-soaked tank top finally coming off
like the joy of rim-shotting gatorades on a parkside garbage can
like the otherworldliness of walking to the grocery store in shorts in the rain after dark
it stays in my mind when I move on.
ANTONIO CUEVA
is a junior, Presidential Scholar, and English major at UB. Most of his free time is dedicated to arduously planning his medieval fiction series, but he also writes poetry, short stories, and song.
California Traffic
things aren’t empty anymore
in my mind, crickets chirp outside
but all I hear is your laugh when
there’s nothing new to say.
the night is palpable
and under the lamplight
we found meaning
in something unspoken
until you parted your lips
and made it known.
life isn’t boring anymore
in my day-to-day, cars whiz by
but I’m always doing something
and if I’m lucky, it’s with you.
the days are longer now—
skating the streets of our city
we found meaning
in something unspoken
until you parted your lips
and made it known.
love with you is like california traffic
full-stop on a six lane highway even in the carpool lane
we’ll be here a while.