Who has a name for this? For hearts that disobey their owners. For beats that have left the thrum of fingers. For furnaces that rage, untended, fueled by some sight, some vision one could call celestial. For nerves that sing and scream. Who has a name for me who is all this and more?
“Give me an elaborate definition of love?” Bod, my friend asks. So, I search my mind, plowing through thoughts like I would through a pile of clothes. And I tell him this: Monday was her eyes singing to me, songs with and without a purpose. Tuesday was her dark skin telling truths that the sun could be black and still shine. Wednesday was her gait and a chill that turned my legs to icicles when her lips spread into a tender smile. I tell him Thursday was all the nothing I knew of her, and all of her that plagued me sweetly. On Friday, I watched, doing nothing because father and mother says this thing, this feeling, is not love. No, this goes by another name. It has to. Saturday was me, a star without it’s shine, watching as she was picked up by another. And on Sunday, I struggled with myself, torn between doing the right thing and the mistake I’d made.

Miracle Edoziem is a student of the department of English and Literary Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka. He is currently in his penultimate year. He doesn’t have much to say about himself, except that, he loves to live in his head. He is the associate editor (Prose I) for The Muse No. 49.