Luther Hughes
Luther Hughes is an undergraduate student in the creative writing program at Columbia College Chicago, in which he is the founder of the poetry organization called, "ink." He has also published poetry in literary journals, some of which can be seen or is forthcoming in Espial, The Voices Project, Apeiron Review, Chicago Review, and Storyacious.
Published 1/25/14
Published 1/25/14
Aubade
My bestfriend had fairytales
tied to his eyes; brisk
and golden between
every blink, hazel
as sunrise, politely
speaking - beautiful.
The breeze beneath his
cheeks followed my
laughter, supple and
dank. We flowered
time between our hands,
held space between our lips.
Mornings were lullabies, his
arms were black holes. Once,
we woke up without dreams.
Our bodies, the mangled reality
of friendships, grew pale.
I love you; an accusation. We settled
atop dying clouds riding the
distant sun. Dawn was figurative.
His eyes were anchored in last
midnight where we slept in two
different beds.
The Gospel
I miss the nights we praised we each other
beneath the blind moon,
laughing at the thought of
being caught mid-worship. I miss
walking down fence
flanked alley
ways clenching on to
your sea-kissed hands while
the warming breeze of your lips
carried my ear;
fields of red would cloud my face,
as you’d preach something like
you’re almost beautiful enough.
My bestfriend had fairytales
tied to his eyes; brisk
and golden between
every blink, hazel
as sunrise, politely
speaking - beautiful.
The breeze beneath his
cheeks followed my
laughter, supple and
dank. We flowered
time between our hands,
held space between our lips.
Mornings were lullabies, his
arms were black holes. Once,
we woke up without dreams.
Our bodies, the mangled reality
of friendships, grew pale.
I love you; an accusation. We settled
atop dying clouds riding the
distant sun. Dawn was figurative.
His eyes were anchored in last
midnight where we slept in two
different beds.
The Gospel
I miss the nights we praised we each other
beneath the blind moon,
laughing at the thought of
being caught mid-worship. I miss
walking down fence
flanked alley
ways clenching on to
your sea-kissed hands while
the warming breeze of your lips
carried my ear;
fields of red would cloud my face,
as you’d preach something like
you’re almost beautiful enough.