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Tyrael Goo dissects the definitions, difficulties, and differences between romantic and sexual love. Most people who aren’t aromantic or asexual, at least as far as I’m aware, don’t think about the definitions of romantic and sexual love very much. The boundaries for romantic and sexual attraction make a lot more sense to people when they’re all wound up together into a singular feeling that you get for a person—the butterflies in your stomach, the desire for their body, the

Perpetual Nkatiaa Boadu ponders the important relationship between love for oneself and love for others. I have always hated crushes. When I was younger, it was almost embarrassing. I was the only black girl most places I went, so my crushes never once looked my way. They wouldn’t even notice if I blushed; my dark skin would hide it. In primary school, the guy I had a crush on asked my best friend on a date. That was the second time it had happened—same guy, different friend.

Deeya Sabnani’s poetic (and practical) guide to falling in love with someone destructive. 1. Locate a singularity. This part is easier than the textbooks suggest; they rarely look like catastrophes at first. They might look like charm, like quiet confidence, or someone who says your name as if they’ve already decided what it means. You do not ask about the density. You do not ask what collapsed to make them this way. Origins are for people who plan on keeping their distance,

Libby Heussler laments a by-gone era of lasting love replaced by the superficiality of dating apps. Every generation has their great acts of love. From the “parting is such sweet sorrow”s of the 16th century to the “I learned French for you!”s of the late 90s, for as long as humans have walked the earth, love has been in the air—or at least, lust, in those early years. But today, nothing compares to the ultimate declaration of love: a message from James (Hinge), reading “Ur c

Editorial Assistant Emily Chan explores the heartbreaking understanding that a beautiful connection is confined to the past. It’s a strange kind of pain, not knowing what will never be. For all the details that you noticed, for everything you knew about me, you never knew this, never noticed this. Never noticed us. And I, for all my faults, perhaps made the biggest one of all in letting you go. Do you remember the way the moon melted all over my brand-new cream carpet the fi

Section Editor Bethany Sharman tackles the inconvenience of having feelings and the difficulty of moving on. Hailed as a heart-stopping discovery in the field of Antimicrobial Resistance, a new study published Friday found that butterflies in the stomach have evolved to withstand conventional treatments of getting rid of a crush. What was once the entirely simple matter of enforcing physical and digital distance by blocking them on social media and resigning from one’s workpl

Editorial Assistant Ella Barker searches for the answer her heart is aching for. I really liked the guy I was seeing recently. Like, really liked him. Out of all the guys I’ve dated, talked to, and hooked up with, he was the one I connected with the most. He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s kind, and he actually seemed to enjoy my company when my clothes were on. I’m used to guys just wanting to jump into bed, but he was different. I wanted this to happen. I wanted to keep going on

Love is in the morning dew, Lining up in a café queue, To drink up a shot of espresso. Love turns and looks at you, Finding the same hazel eyes, Within a room of blues and browns. Love is waiting on your doorstep, Wiping up the frown the moment, You see her twirl in her yellow dress. Love is adding another text, After the end of a conversation. A question that increases the connection. Love is growing old, In sickness and in sorrow In the health that y

Love, love, love, What is love? Would it sneak up on you After months of radio silence? Would it ever leave me alone, The love for you? What is love? Is it pure as snow? Or white as a dove? Could it be deceitful? Would I ever have met the real you without it? Love is the sun shining through the window The plants growing green The morning dew untouched The rain falling Making the sky clean Love is everywhere all at once It's nowhere to be found Love is in the gr

Understanding you is like speaking A language no one in this world speaks, But me. It’s learning your quirks, But knowing them already. It’s knowing your expressions, Instead of words. Knowing you is like Knowing a warm summer’s day, That we spent all day on the bay. You whined about the sand Getting in your hair and I sat there and admired the ways In which your eyes crinkled and softened. Loving you is loving me The way I am around you The way I feel safe. Lo

Walking down the street, A van parked at the curbside, We meet face to face. Eyes lock in a pause, A small moment that feels strange, Like recalling song. Something in me shifts, Whispers of calm fill the air, So grand yet so still. Memories linger, Moments fade, bright yet fleeting, In a breath, they heal. Courteous exchange, In that heartbeat, we connect, A glance shared in time. As our paths crossed there, I felt my edges soften, Embraced in the light.

I put pen to paper like how you put your lips on her skin—slow and reverent. Making her blush in a way I’ll never get to taste. Where the desire lingers in both of your eyes. The ink hesitates where I do. It pools in the broken crevices, in the pauses where your name almost forms but never arrives. A fleeting ghost. You linger more in memory than in life. I imagined the warmth of you, not as something I had or created, but as something I circled endlessly. However, you circle

Publishing under a pseudonymous name in the local newspaper, Myron Miscavage—whose real name was Barry Eck—had won himself modest acclaim by writing a weekly relationship advice column titled Weird Love. Barry’s writing, situated somewhere between inoffensively banal and offensively derivative, stuck to those popular phrases and easy consolations you might find in any other advice column, things like “if he wanted to, he would have” and “love begins by loving yourself”. His a

Gemini hiding, Gemini holding I am I am only a deconstructionist. I untie the cities in my muscles, let them see the stars free from light pollution. Your hands meteor striking a shower of gold on my countrysides, so the population knows to believe in miracles, so the wealth of my soul is you. The veins a river bed of Pangea. I take apart what has been assembled so you know how to hold me better, we assume

We lay in glens fringed with green, gums tangled with leaves that gleamed. We walked the paths hand in hand, and fell in love in this golden land. It seemed we’d stay that way together, but now you’re tearing away forever. I thought that when our time was done, our woven souls would rise above. Now not two, we’re one and one. You fly away to shores unknown. I wither, wound here, with sarsaparilla near, the leaf with veins in triples. One was you and one was I, a third st

I fail to express it all, I think of him and then I fall. So here the page lies, dead. I bask in his light instead. Unable to write about his face, Upon seeing it, I enter heaven’s grace. An impossible task that I repeat, For in it, I find an unburdened retreat. And when I write of all that I miss, My hand leaves the page to grab his. He is poetry that stands in flesh, A haven when I need more rest. Words cannot capture all of him, Nor compose his soul’s eternal hymn. by Amy

You hit me like a power up. I levelled up the moment that we lay our backs upon the sand saw the shooting stars above, knew it was love. Schoolies, whoever knew that it would lead to you and me? At the table playing games I could have sworn I saw a nervous twinkle in those midnight brown eyes but I’d never ever known you to be so shy. It kinda made me think there was a reason why… We lay by the ocean. It swirled, magic potion. Boosted emotion, I changed, evolution, expanding

Gorgeous, Is the burst of a berry, In the soft-lipped mouth of a man. Orgasmic, Is the roundness of a peach, In the tearing teeth of a man. Divine, Is the arch of a banana, In the hands of a man, mashed and moulded. by Max Brady Cooper

The young woman grins at me, Sending me spiralling Down. There is no bottom to this pit. I dream, I dream, I dream, All for nothing. So much time Spent. I don Purity Make my promises Of abstinence, Only to be frustrated. The woman laughs at me We should be friends. Toiling away I eat lunch alone, Waiting for, Shame On my Lust, I watch the dancers Take the stage, Powdered smiles and dead eyes, Grinning at me. afterwards, spirals. When I close my eyes Sh

In between the shimmying crowd, the dance floor glistens with glitter and sequins. Copious amounts of them are stuck to my skin but I don’t wipe them off on account of hoping that it was you that single handedly stuffed them into the glitter gun. There's colourful strobe lights that illuminate everything but you and I wonder if it is on purpose because you want to hide in front of such a large crowd. I understand the desire, all you need to do is just give me a sign and I’ll

bleed against me til your lungs give out i will soak you up and mould you into shape back together again and again there’s no labour in my hands for you my fingers will tire and my bones will creak but it is comfort and it is fine my second nature is that moment there’s no labour in my hands for you i will twist and turn and spin you around put my blood my sweat my tears into your mouth i fix and mend and prop you up by my side there’s no labour in my hands for you i will lay

I heard you say you listen to Nirvana, and your childhood dream was to become a racecar driver. Well, I listen to rock music and drive a fast car. Why don’t you talk to me? I saw you look at the pretty goth girl with ripped tights and black lipstick and say she’s hot. Well, I’ve ripped up my stockings and spent my last five bucks on black lipstick. Why don’t you think I’m hot? I heard you say you liked girls who weren’t afraid to nerd out, like a girl who knew every charact e