I met her at a crossroad;
She offered to come along.
I walked with my hand,
in her hand.
Singing away our melancholic song.
She was there for quite a while
but I knew what was true.
A girl from a world of sunshine,
would get tired of my world,
so blue.
Well, I cannot blame her.
I'm a broken string, anyway.
When bruises speak for themselves,
there is nothing left to say.
So, with a heavy heart
I kissed her on both her eyes.
And she didn't turn to look twice,
after we bid goodbye.
I started on my journey again;
and it didn't take that long.
for came,
another hand to hold.
Singing away our melancholic song.

Orange evening in my room.
He's kissing the hollow of my back.
His brooding eyes; look into mine,
he has my heart trapped in a sack.
The passion in our short breaths, is real.
The way he tugs at my hair,
makes my eyes roll back into my sockets.
"I love you" he says, so easy.
I'm not more than a lost locket.
Pressed against his dulcet collarbone,
rocking together in our cradle of lust.
He's biting my earlobe...
I'm digging my nails at his back.
His wedding ring on the table,
collecting dust.

She laid there midst the wrinkled sheets and untied scarf cuffs.

Even after those long hours of making love,
Love wasn't there enough.

And what happens to the teacups after we've left?
Clinking, clanging at the table;
carried, catapulted, cleaned.
Do they know of our lips that tasted of each other,
or things said, unsaid?
Where do eight years go?
Just, ****!!
― gone.
Or still occurring
in folds between our conscious blinks, our separate times midst now and then.
Do you and I exist again?
and again, and again?
Crossing the street again;
in the grass, under the blanket,
at the park again?
Are we kissing
again?
The lights and the people,
brown irides and darker pupils of this stranger,
and I,
round and round on this merry-go-round
― it's déjà vu.
Am I in the 'Again'?
Maybe déjà vu is Again, after all.
I'm at the beach once more;
they've built new houses.
You must've changed as well;
built new houses.
But I only remember old handwriting,
legs on legs, eating at 5am, icecube dragged across my skin;
I remember you in Agains.
Clinking, clanging at the table,
our teacups.
carried, catapulted, cleaned,
brought again ―
Maybe they
have seen ghosts of us
over again.

Come here, my floating feather.
Sit here; at my thigh,
for a while.
And I promise not to move,
or capture you.
Don't be scared, you pretty little thing.
I know, life doesn't treat you well.
Yes, I know. The world is a dark place.
But my love,
I'd be your fireplace wood.
Believe me,
I'd brighten your world.
Wait! Don't fly away yet.
I'm not asking you to be mine.
No, sweet love.
I understand,
that you are a hurricane of fire
and I, only a moth.
Destined to be destroyed.
Come here, my blazing bonfire.
Let me embrace your flame,
while you consume me.
And, even in this last breath
my sweet love,

I smile.

The world is a well lit ballroom.
The forest; a spread rug.
Daylight's wasting, it's taking forever,
I'm drinking water from a coffee mug.
People dancing, they take their turns.
It's hard to tango when you're just one.
Dancing has now turned to war,
ballroom dancing is so much fun.
After the long day. the sun is pink
the sea crashes at the well lit shore.
People bow and thank me again,
they kiss my hand, don't know what for.
I have been sitting here,
for as long as I know.
Midst spider webs and lady bugs.
People come and people go,
I'm drinking water from a coffee mug.

I remember the first time
When I knew what drowning felt like
It was in the gaze of his seashore eyes
And it would only be a lie,
If I said I tried hard enough to breathe.
It wouldn't be half true,
If I told you,
It wasn't more time that I wanted in his
Restless breathing waves,
Crashing against my collarbone.
His grasp like ocean currents that
Keep my arms as if in shackles,
No matter how hard I tried.
His fingers like, seawater
Seeping between my thighs.
Sinking in the sleepless ocean of his
Broad shoulders enveloping my skin and bones. I found home,
In his unloving stares and his need to only destroy me.
It's beautiful that he exists; as a seashore
Drenched in rain.
The first time I learnt what drowning felt like,
I didn't want to breathe again.

I'm always in a state of drown.
I write to catch a breath
and with every passing minute,
I'm losing it.
I'm not amused by the world outside.
I live in my melancholic paradise.
I breathe in a paper carton
filled with gallons of thought.
I cannot breathe; but
I'm breathing.

Lively people and empty conversations.
In here it's so much colder.
Lorazepam and alcohol,
I'm drunk but at least bolder.
I've been looking into his brandy eyes,
feels like it's been so long.
Couple more sips and his black shirt,
now they are playing our song.
The room is now a chatter,
I can barely stand.
We talk about our fancy tea
with whiskey in our hands.
It's 3AM and whiskey kisses
also a lot of stories and lies.
Love songs only break your heart
so bid our blurry goodbye.

I have feelings;
you're dramatic.
as the back of my notebook
soaks in condensation,
at a remote coffeeshop-table
somewhere,
i check my phone again.
you're misunderstanding love
and I wish I had the time
to explain.
i'm glad
there's hardly anyone here;
waiters too bored to check.
leaning against a window
i hope everyone is happy.
you don't know love;
i have nothing to say.
wildflowers —
you can't plan them.

the florist had sunflowers today — it's been a good day. carelessly placing the keys on the table, she replaces last week's wilted lilies with big sunflowers. a girl with a thoughtless routine, of course, she then walks over to the kitchen racks — tea leaves, brown sugar. the world was never "going to the dogs" for her, political conversation was not enough to rile her up; she never wanted to be a part of a legendary romance or start a revolution. she wanted a nice bath after a long day, good tea and inspiring poetry on an uninspiring afternoon. sometimes it's overwhelming to look outside — all the square lights from the square windows in endless buildings; all the people. so she looks down, making swirls on the countertop with her fingertips. spectacular was not in the extraordinary; it was in the details lost in a glimpse. swaying to a song in her head she undoes the clasps of the brown-sugar jar. in the sweet essence of a paradoxical universe, it's quite reasonable to say, there was something astounding about her ordinariness.

who wants the first question?
orange cheeks
strawberry saturday —
two robot contestants
with coloured eyes,
violin smiles,
mugs of tea;
in quiet night air
both
maybe
looking for love.

sitting at the left corner in this café
with our coffees, hot and cold.
I like how your eyes shift and your lips curl
and I think about the million times that
you've smiled that same smile.
Your blue shirt, my favorite one in our closet and
swimming in your eyes,
I come across many tea and coffees, wrinkled sheets, undone laundary and kisses.
You shuffle your feet under the table,
and I make paper boats of tissue
I like how for a moment your fingers touch my knuckles.
It takes me back to,
our giggles on a quiet plane, walking barefoot on grass, crying with you under the sheet and anniversary dinners.
sitting at the left corner in this café
with our coffees, hot and cold.
It's our first date, for a couple hours
and a lifetime.

I have lived like this for a longtime now.
Brewing tea at four am's,
watching the duet of my heartbeat and the flickering blue flame in the darkness of my kitchen.
So many nights that turned into mornings at the blink of my rose lit eyes.
Sitting at the same spot on the couch, trying to look through the fishnet skies.
From tea to coffee to cigarettes to joints to big sips of whiskey-cola.
Running away from addictions, time to time.
Running away from places and people before they could form a thought about me.
I live in a prison that I create for myself. Cancelling plans, dodging phone calls and avoiding eye contact.  
Getting drunk and making love to strangers that,
may or may not remember me.
Worrying.  
Worrying about what the world has come to and what my country is doing wrong and about all the innocent people that suffer everyday.
I am worried about my education and the future.
Also,  the life that I am creating for myself.
Worried about the dishes that I still haven't done,  
the mess around me that is growing like wildfire
or the whole minute that I haven't blinked.
I have lived like this for a longtime. Paranoid.  
Looking through the crack in the curtains and at lit windows in far away buildings.
At the dark patches in the sky where the stars aren't there.
Scared that the man in the television has looked into my eyes for too long and that the song playing is too relatable.
Too long have I been scared to now feel anything that is considered normal.
I have lived in my world of anxiety,  irrational fears and slow dancing curtains for too long to smile, laugh and love and not be it just half hearted.
But there is still hope for me in,
Quiet midnight's of making tea and
The one who stares back at me,
through the fishnet skies.

you like the streets
in the rain
and you don't care
much about your shoes.
learning to grow up
in rented apartments
hasn't been easy.
I know,
sometimes you don't want
to get the bread,
and want
someone to rub your back.
darling, you've come so far
from stealing roses
and melancholic sunsets.
washing the day away
in the shower,
i hope you sing;
hope that you take a chance
and learn
from what scares you.
make the mistakes again,
and again and again
and hold on to the good.
when you feel broken
and tired,
do the best you can —
feel.
in your darkest,
believe
in your imagination.
like the rain;
forget the shoes.

like this morning
of sweet biscuits dipped in tea,
i will make many mornings.
of coffee, of music,
of people.
long hair,
then short hair,
then long again —
the years will make me look different.
seeing me so often,
my sister will still remember
my face the same as seven years ago.
but my heart will change.
hopefully becoming kinder and softer.
i will tire of favorite songs
and find them again
in a magical moment
decades later.
pink hands becoming paler —
i will experience loss.
inevitably.
maybe i will be prepared then
to never be able to hold someone
i love.
buying more flowers for home,
embarrassing myself more often
with random declarations of feelings,
writing more letters —
i will make more memories
for myself
and the ones who will miss me.
i will experience rain for a last time.
another cup of ginger tea.
one more thing to laugh about.
and hopefully,
sitting in a front porch somewhere,
life will look just silly.
in the best possible way.
like this morning
of sweet biscuits dipped in tea,
i will make many mornings.
but for now
i'm here —
wishing the last of me well.
looking forward to tomorrows.

almost always
sitting, we
hunched over
the table and
made paper
boats,
made cake
and milk tea,
made slow
dances
out of
matchsticks
on cardboard
dance floors,
made dusty-star
constellations.
moving upwards
now, i have
walked past it.
a small
and dusty,
wooden
thing. holding
nothing but
imaginary
old paper,
stained cups
and cardboard.
as i move
onwards
we are slowly
disappearing
into thin air.
one step;
the last of our
laughter is gone.
another step;
your hair has
escaped from
between
my fingers
and lost colour
and shape.
our desks are gone.
the sink, the stars
the spotted cat
holding its breath,
watching the bird in
our kitchen garden
— dissolved.
up,
up,
up,
in the
vastness
of the view
from up here,
i see
emptiness.
quiet,
whistling
wind.
breath.
bird.
trees.
oh.
th­ank
goodness.

I don't need much from you.
I don't need promises, or a double bed or your truths.
I have lived a life enough to appreciate the little things
I have.
I have spent enough afternoons lying in monsoon's damp heat,
listening to crickets chirp,
a particular rat's squeaking,
whistling birds at a distance..
to know,
what matters the most.
Maybe I need from you most, to exist. Promise to be real in present time;
say for sure that you will look at me, and touch me
and wander with me.
I don't want you to be mine or make me yours.
I can't assure you I wouldn't change. But if you still always exist, somewhere, somehow in time
...I promise to stroke your back till you fall asleep,
and make you pots of tea.
Just live here, touch my cheek
and when you're walking too fast,
stop once to let me catch up.
You keep walking and waking;
dreaming, typing, eating, singing that song about blue skies.
Times I stroke your knuckles with my fingertips
when we are sitting together,
maybe hold my hand or...
look at me sometimes like you know me.
And in return my darling,
I promise you ― my heart and goldfish kisses.

Hi love,

What I love the most about this letter is that you might or might never read this. The uncertainty is more comforting to me than knowing what will be. Maybe that is why I am going away from you; maybe that is why I have not and probably will never respond to your messages.

When we first started talking, you promised to give me the last teabag in your backpack that you carry, but you never did. You did give me though – several three AMs’ of not-friends, a night of drenching in the rain and the little room in your mind where I exist. I never understood why I felt so deeply about you, because I never really liked you. My heart broke, each time you left me cold before the sun came up. I cannot explain darling, how it hurt to consider possibilities of this turning into a wonderful magic when in reality, you are only free when you are *****. My beautiful daydream, I do not blame you. Maybe there is beauty that I do not recognize, in falling in love with something that you are supposed to hate.

I will always cherish that one time that you fell asleep for a while with me. You smelled of the soft love we made and sleep. And most of all darling, you smelled of you; how I miss the smell of you. I remember, every time after you left, I would clench onto the sheet and lie down because in a strange way, you smelled of home to me. When I was in college, all my outstation classmates would go home in the vacations and I’d realize that I have no place to call ‘home’, nowhere that I can be at love and peace- that I can call my own. Maybe that is why, I always look for home in the people that I come across. Is it vain to do that? I certainly hope not.

It is hard for me to stay away from you. I always end up soaking up every last minute that you choose to give to me. But this time I need to go, love. I do not have a lot of time to invest in this beautiful world of you, I and heartbreak. I am an ocean-girl, my daydream. And when I love, I love with all of my ocean heart. I am finding it very hard to contain my ocean self in the tiny jars of your twisted words, and half-hearted midnights.

Now that this is the last time that I would communicate with you, let me tell you this embarrassing thing. I spent an hour on an insignificant evening, stalking your mother on Facebook. But then again, I stalk friends of friends of friends, all the time. The reason that I am bringing this up is because while going through her pictures, I found this one photograph of her younger self holding baby-you in her arms and smiling. I had taken a screenshot of that picture and was going to show you and talk about it, but we never met after that so I would like to acknowledge it here. I just want to express that, the photograph was one of the most beautiful things that I have ever come across. The soft light on her skin, her long uncombed hair and the beautiful mix of joy and melancholy in her smile- I looked at that picture for a longtime, overwhelmed. I knew in that moment that I was in utter love with the woman in the photograph. It was surprising how I did not hesitate once to call it love. That photograph for some reason, means more to me.

I hope the pastel drawing of a sunset that I gave you, always makes your heart happy. You really are like a sunset to me. You are always evolving and changing in dark and light shades of your existence. I hope you always find reasons to love every inch that creates you. I also hope that someday, you find someone who you can share a night of peaceful sleep with, someone who paints each breath of yours with miracles and love.

So here it is darling. Here is the end.

So long.

tilting a ceramic cup of tea towards the sun, i imagine all the teas we have had together. many mornings of waking up early; sitting in the quiet sounds of a television before the storm. the afternoon we made cake for the first time — checking on it over and over again, and still burning it a little — i made tea while we waited. for many years you sang songs in the evening, and stopped completely in the last few. with spiced fruit and laughter at the small garden, and then in the stillness of a purple sky when you stopped speaking to me with love, finally — we had tea. a ritual repeated over and over, it gave us something to hold onto when a home was crumbling around us. in moments of joy you called me daughter, and other times you didn't. and somewhere between that; and between the balcony and the table, stillness and chaos, sanity and paranoia, home and hell — we had glimpses of normal. food and small talk. news about the neighbours. sweet yoghurt. the bird we rescued from the bottom of a tall tree. crisp shirts that came back from the dry-cleaners. the flowers you embroidered on handkerchiefs. and tea. in the quiet, and while people spoke on the low-volume television, we sat down and finished our cups.

here, as the sunlight paints the ceramic golden, some of these days and parts of us have wilted in our old garden and decayed into an ugly-marvellous disappearance. here with my tea today, years later, i have grown a new leaf.

a
quiet
ocean;
soft
beguine.
love,
it means
what you
want it
to mean.

There's a box filled with miracles,
In the closet that I keep.
A blanket of fireflies
on the bed that I sleep.
I have a woolen cap of dreams
and I wear that and roam,
around the little place with dim lights,
that I've been calling home.
On the ceiling, dangle with strings
the imaginations that glow.
On the table lies glittering memories,
arranged in a row.
In that little space under the bed.
I've stacked a million wishes in tiny jars.
A wind chime of peace hung beside the window.
The ringing melody of a thousand stars..
The walls are painted with nostalgia
and the enchanting moon's silver light.
There's glitter sprinkled on the floor
dropped by the glittering fireflies.
There are also curtains of creativity
that turn alive, every night.
A big pillow of sweet comfort
that makes everything alright.

I stand beside the window pane.
Just stare sometimes, when I'm alone..
wander down the memory lane,
to that little place with dim lights
that I've been calling home.

My throbbing vein and
a sour taste
like a sour shot of
tequila,
still coating my tongue.
Tequila and the
taste of cigarette sparks.
My sun kissed thighs
and teeth marks.
My head heavy; walking
to the kitchen sink.
It's past December.
Your love
is like a bad hangover.
A beautiful night;
I wish I could even remember.

The truth about me
is that my teeth need to be fixed
but I am too scared of the dentist.
Something about the whiteness of a clinic
and the smell of a previous patient's tongue,
makes me want to wait for dentures.
I am the kind of person,
you could bully and make cry,
to help yourself fit in.
Somewhere between society's rights and wrongs,
I paint my eyes too dark, struggle to smile in photographs
and constantly worry about getting *****, the next time I leave my house.
The truth about me
is that I am paranoid that everyone is lying to me,
that I am a potential alcoholic and my favorite hobby,
is a Russian roulette of self destruct.
I do not understand best friends, brown rice,
or how one cannot shut up about how much weight they need to lose.
The truth about me
is that I don't know how to say "I love you" and mean it.
That every time I try to build a home, it breaks.
I am a breezy sunrise, reeking of bad decisions,
sad memories with happy endings.
The truth is,
I will waltz into your life and make your skin tingle with soft kisses.
I will,
break bottles, kiss your ear, make you cry, make you laugh, run away, hike mountains, **** with your head and slowdance with you, till we mix like oil paints, smiling, and swaying till nothing at all,
exists except our whispers, and the blue-purple air that surrounds us.
Love. I am happiness, chaos and nature
and the truth about me,
is that I am not going to stay
but I promise you,
I will be unforgettable.

can we
sit on the
concrete
pathway
next to
the garden,
with our
warm
coffee
cups?
i want
to take
photographs
of you
in this
green shirt,
in this
morning
light.

the cold swirly
wind outside
sounds like a
whistling kettle
against my
closed windows.
ankles buried
in a duvet,
cuppa hot cinnamon
coffee, nocturnes
under pink light
- inside it's warm.
thank goodness
it's warm.

Here I lay
With a heavy heart again.
And nostalgic melodies that makes me feel nothing.
And here I lay
In a sea of blanket
Only the music of this emptiness ringing.
Here I lay
Staring at my blurry blue ceiling
Till night breaks into day.
And counting the tears rolling down my cheek; the quiver in my breath,
Here I lay.

sweet cricket-chirp
on a rainy day;
we have nothing much
to say.
the day goes on like a day
and nothing happens.
unchanged —
the oceans and the air
and we are both scared
of just that.
if love happens,
does it not happen
like in the movies?
do i not burst into song
and hope that everything
goes wrong,
to go right again?
is it even love
if the music doesn't play

now

here,

as we bid goodbye?
does it matter why
it's not as lovely
when it's easy
to leave and
to get by?
maybe
we can hope
to try.
and love,
maybe
just maybe,
we can love
in the most ordinary way
here
so comfortable —
sweet cricket-chirp,
rain
and nothing much
to say.

sweetlove,
you're lovely
when you sleep
— here, in
a sunless
morning;
your chest
rising and
falling.
shoulders;
outlined in
lamplight.
quietly, in
your ear
i whisper
random words
— call it poetry.
i want you
to wake up.
watch you
softly,
slowly
put on
your
cotton shirt.
toes
touching
the cold floors.
i want to
make us
warm coffee,
and ask you
to read
something
from a book.
put my leg
against your leg,
my cup
next to
your cup,
my nose
to
your nose —
close.
close.
close,
watching
our sleeps
swirl together;
pupils
dilate
behind
our
eyelids.
i want
to talk
about our
backs,
and hair
and fingers
and necks
and thighs.
lean against
a wall,
as the
sun
from
the window,
slowly,
turns us
pink,
like
your brain,
like
my tongue,
like
the insides
of your
mouth,
like
my
collarbone,
like
your
beating
heart,
like
my
­lower
lip

like

i can't think.
wake up.

"I mean I don't like you, like that yet." you said,
and went ahead to kiss me and cup my *******.
I have always been that kid who liked everything.
The cold morning breeze, scalding sunshine, brick walls,
burnt soup, inconsistent laughter, English class,
the weird kid in seventh grade who bullied me and
making crosses on my skin with fingernails over mosquito bites. So,
I did not understand it when you said you did not like me.
I wondered, if it was because my nose was too crooked, or my lips too plump or because my hair didn't have a shape?
It's weird because I like you and for all that makes you.
And it is so simple for me,
to appreciate the subtle balding of your head, the shape of your shoulders, the Pinocchio nose of yours or the fact that you are an *******.
I started to like the taste of your skin, the touch of the camera around your neck, your old, fading jeans and the 'know it all' attitude.
I heard your words in poetry when you kept saying,
that I don't know you well enough to like you or love you or to cuddle with you while I slept.
Darling, we both know you never intended me to know you well enough.
You said you liked how I wrote my words, my short haircut and the curves of my body,
but not enough to like me.
So strange, because it was as easy as breathing,
for me to draw masterpieces out of your naked body painted in
the subtle yellow light of an evening.
I haven't felt as worthless, as I did when I spent hours in the night,
loving each inch of you just to hear that
you don't like me, like that.
Darling when I held you, I held you with all the universe in me.
I held you, hoping to mend every broken part of you,
to make disappearing clouds out of everything
that keeps you awake at night.
It was simple to kiss your skin and to like it,
and to like you.
I liked our time, your kisses, and the husky sound of your voice when you said "I don't like you like that"
Maybe it's stupid that I like you,
like it is stupid to like loneliness, mud spots on a favorite clothing or holding my breath under water.
It's stupid to feel
so unbearably off balance while loving someone so emotionally unavailable and
liking it.
It's stupid
and you are a *******
but I like you.
I like you.

I cried with a throbbing head
and pills in my hands and floor.
I cried while I wrote to you—
"please come meet me." you said,
"I am coming." when I said "my head
Hurts so..."
"I'm coming." you said and I took one
sedative, scared that I might
Take them all.
"I am scared. Please come to me." I wrote
as I felt ***** and tears,
at the back of my throat.
"I'm coming." you said, switched your
phone off and went to yoga class.

the green-ness
of a grasshopper,
sleep-turns of a
hibiscus at dawn,
soft humming
of the wind outside
a closed glass window
— went unnoticed today.
quietly, as the day
settled upon a
simmering turmoil,
the soap washed off
a ceramic cup
just perfectly.
cold feet
were warmed
inside a madness
of bedsheets,
blankets and duvets.
a favourite song
was made.
hair dried
flawlessly.
two people
fell asleep after
a long, long night.
a baby cow
took its first
baby breath.
the sparkle
of orange,
blue fish
underneath
clear water
in the
afternoon sun,
big shadow at
the damp roots
of a broad tree,
an old lady's
sweet laughter
at the television
— went unnoticed today.
slowly, as the day
bubbled into a hot
and cold mess,
hungry people
had their food.
a new leaf
bloomed on
a houseplant.
a notebook
was completely filled.
i wrote a small poem.

in about
ten years
we will sit
at a very
familiar
coffeeshop,
and get
the same
coffee and
bacon-egg
things, for
the eleven-
hundredth
time.

in a
moment,
four or five
months ago,
we will have
sat in the car
and decided
to make a
life together.

seven odd years
from now,
we will find
ourselves
in front of
a window,
as it rained
outside your
parents' home.

a year or two
in the past,
we will have
crossed paths
without even
noticing.

in many an
uncountable
week; my
bare thighs
pressed
against
yours — we
will slowly
fall into
making love,
first thing
in the
morning.

last september
you will have
gone into a
cornfield and
told me that
i was the one.

fifty-three
minutes
from now
you will have
had your lunch
and kissed
me again.

several years
ago, we will
have gone
to bed in
different
worlds,
without
knowing
each other.

somewhere
in the exact
middle,
we
will have
unknowingly
imagined
and prayed
just for this.

I saw god,
grab my mother by the hair
and slam her head repeatedly,
till there were blood stains on the wall.
I remember each crease on his face
from my usual nightmares,
from memories I can't recall.
I saw god,
kick her in the stomach
till she lied on the floor,
numb.
He slapped her face
and punched her in the back
and then some.
I have seen the dark hollows
beneath her eyes,
as she wept in the silence of night.
Here, it was always grey.
There was no hope.
There was no light.
The house,
it reeked of burnt dreams
and pillow stained with tears.
She stopped to laugh.
Then stopped to cry.
Her eyes were filled with fear.
I saw god,
he cracked those jokes
and laughed among the crowd.
I watched her rock herself to sleep.
Only to wake startled,
to this silence so loud.
She kissed my cheek
and let me know,
"Darling, you are my only smile."
I saw her dance,
to pattering rain
When she was sane for a while.
I saw god,
grab a knife
and run behind her, till she fell.
And time and time,
what upset my god?
I just couldn't tell.
Soon enough,
she broke down.
Her eyes were blank as slate.
I kissed her cheek
and combed her hair.
But I knew it was too late.
Her eyes were dry,
she took my hand.
"I love you." she said.
It's been so long
that she is gone.
The ring of her voice
is still in my head.
I saw god,
crack open a wine
and once again,
laughed among the crowd.
She is still here,
weeping in a corner.
Waking me up,
to this silence so loud.

Feet interlocked under the table
elbows and coffee cups on it —
You're losing limbs now.
Yesterday when I walked home
in the chatter of drunk men,
sandals rubbing across gravel
and music
from a ringing cellphone
or the television from an old restaurant,
I was becoming someone else.
Catapulted words and trees that never forget —
You're only half a torso and a face,
maybe missing an ear.
Eight hundred miles then a thousand and eight hundred,
I still walk the same walk
and say those same things.
Round and round and round,
and you're just two eyes and a sweet smell.
I'm smiling wide across a table
and the sky is swirling.
The days last longer now,
and no one knows me.
Dessert, dancing and starry eyes —
You're nothing now.

you want
the sofa
with nine
lives --
made in a
warehouse,
carried into
a bright
room, then
a judge's
office, then
an apartment;
under the
taking off
and
putting on
of clothes.
i want to
paint the
cabinets
white.
every
morning
— naked,
when you
start to put
a shirt on,
i want to
bring you
back in bed;
tell you how
i have never
seen anything
as beautiful
as you.
you want to
tame your
wild hair
in the shower.
i want a
second cup
of coffee in
the evening.
you want
pickles on
your sandwich.
softly,
as the day
becomes
blue, rosé,
then burnt-
orange —
the lights
come on.
i open and
close the
refrigerator;
you put
music on.
somewhere,
in the middle,
i want
you
just
how
you want
me.
the
delicious
smell of
cooking
garlic; a
familiar
song.
you want
me
just
how
i want
you.

when you're
back home
after a night
of storm,
coldness
and rubble,
there will be
a quiet kitchen
and two blue
cups of coffee.
when you
reach here,
rest your wet
hat, and wash
the dirt out of
your hair.
take off
your coat
and sit down.
there will be
oranges, kiwis,
lemons resting
on the countertop.
fresh flowers
in an old ***.
an orange cat
laying in the
afternoon sun;
a sweet dog
in slumber.
in your stillness
you will revisit
the storm in
memory —
be careful
to only look
from a distance.
the monotone
sound of a vacuum
in the other room,
will bring you back.
you can sleep
here, or take a
walk along the
road outside.
or drive to
the beach.
after the storm
when you
come home,
there will be
hot jardineira
with whole
vegetables
for lunch.
and roasted
cinnamon apple
if you'd like it.
after the cold
when you arrive,
you will have
a place to
cry and
laugh
and live.
you can be
here for
as long as
you want.
come soon.

Because when I dream
I dream of flowing breezes through vast lands of green
Streaks of pink in clear skies and
seamless roads that lead to nowhere.
I wish to walk along the empty streets
in the subtle rage of downpour
Spend a lone evening in a strange city
in it's nostalgic allure.

Because when I dream
I dream for rustic memories and
the reflection of bonfire in my eyes
But sometimes,
I wish for neon lights
and blazing winter nights.

Autumn day and coral leaves.
Time and time; there's not much to gain.
People live and people die.
I'm merely a boat,
collecting rain.
I'm still here,
when they come along
with their sweet kisses and goodbyes.
I'm still here,
singing the same 'ol song.
Verse by verse, your beautiful lies.
Laughing during the sunshine,
I'm radiating at the
break of day.
Oh, here comes again...
drizzle. drizzle. drizzle.
Here, it's mostly grey.
Oh, what more do you want?
I'm tired,
my omniscient little crowd.
I'm merely a boat,
collecting rain.
Someday, I too will drown.

Tomorrow I will go on like yesterday, you know ―
Same 'ol waking up, hot bath then smear peach-pink on each eyelid.
It's not an emergency,
but that Portuguese song about the serene farm
–a happy place―
reminds me of you.
Today I stirred my tea for longer,
lost in thought,
lost in repercussion,
lost.
It's not an emergency,
but I dreamt of us in a balcony at night;
sparkling eyes and wine.
I know I'm not extraordinary.
I was made to collect seashells in silence at windy seashores;
woman making boats of paper napkins at cafés and throwing it away.
It's not an emergency,
but were you looking for extraordinariness?
Did you find it in yourself?
A sad poem and glistening eyes in the dark ―
My last memory of you is from years ago.
We left this story where it was, maybe finished it,
I'm never sure.
It's not an emergency,
but I think we will meet again somewhere.
And midst champagne flutes and people's side profiles,
I will recognize you.

the sunlight
shines
through
the spaces
between
the curtains.
sounds of
construction
and lawn
mowers
whirl,
quietly,
in the
autumn
air and
become
a nocturne
on your
wooden
piano.
softly
in our
little home,
when it's
half a day
half a night,
we sit
on the
floor
between
humans
and
imaginary
things
moving
like dust
around us
and have
afternoon
tea.

Charles Aznavour sings La Bohemia, as the candlelight,
a red-yellow glow
flickers — dancing on the wall.
The years have gone by like a day,
and there is still room for more.
I have washed a thousand dishes; I took the coldest shower
and there is still time.
Even when the worst tragedy,
life can be just perfect.
The poet in Paris
was once scared of everything;
today she walked to the bar
with a cigarette and a friend,
and even though she hasn't made the best decisions
and life hasn't
and will never be ideal,
it has been and will always be perfect.
The guys went for a swim with the sharks in Dungeons — South Africa
looks like a dream in the summer,
and winter
and when it rains.
Even when there has never been a happy day,
you've never had a good cup of anything
and never been in love,
life can still be perfect.
You have misunderstood love,
and you're losing the plot.
if you have ever loved the pink sleep of five in the morning,
you have been in love.
and if you have wanted to hear a song again,
walked barefoot on grass,
laughed at anything at all,
you have been in love.
life can be perfect if you want it to, and if you make it to be.
bad weather?
life is perfect.
they did not love you?
life is perfect.
For the poet never changed her plans to go to the bar
when she dropped the teapot
out of nervousness this morning
and the boys
went for the swim
when they knew the waves were enormous.
Go to the bar
and swim with the sharks.
Make life
perfect for you.

what?
nothing.
i have nothing
to say.
for the lack of plea
and expression,
anyway,
I wrote you
a list of quiets:
- turning of a cab
into my lane at 10:30
- stirring sugar in tea
- closing the door
behind you
- last word in a letter
- squeezing toothpaste
onto a wet toothbrush
- millisecond to realize
something's funny
- a song
from the neighbor's window
- the longest argument
- drinking cold water
- searching for the towel
- kissing against a wall
- moment of not-over-this
at the kitchen sink, washing
dishes and spoons
- walking over to a friend
- switching on the string lights
- anxiety outside a restaurant
- warm feet on cold floor
first thing in the morning
- i think,
i really think
we can make the sweetest life.

back and forth
in a wooden chair
as i drink my morning
tea, with the sweet-salty
biscuits i like —
the air feels especially cold.
this homemade blanket
of multicoloured strings
woven together,
by my sister's little daughter
is keeping my feet warm.
in the middle of
the trees outside,
sleepy houseplants inside,
teapot, socks, soft jazz,
fig jam in the refrigerator —
i'm warm today.
from here,
the life that i've lived
looks very big
and very small
at the same time.
from here,
the decisions look easier;
the mistakes a bit funnier.
and there is clarity.
adjusting my glasses,
as i curl into the blanket
pulling the top of it
over my shoulders,
comfortable,
i imagine my time
in the house i grew up in.
the floors, balcony,
sound of the ceiling fan —
a grey cloud in my hair.
from here now
i see the way out.
from this day,
i can see
how important
a day was.
maybe i should
have calculated less,
loved more
let go more.
back and forth
in this wooden chair,
i've had
the sweetest
life.
i've loved
the sweetest
people.
this is what
everything
was leading up to —
warm on a cold morning
and cinnamon tea.
if only i knew,
i wouldn't
have worried as much.
oh well.

submerged
in water
inside our
vase; i'm
floating
underneath
white lilies.
stems
intertwined
with my hair.
eyelashes
against my
walls
— you.
dim,
quiet,
meditative
— you
are in the
apartment.
wet fingertips
on glass;
i draw
the shape
of your eye.
randomness.
you smile;
draw my
nose, give
it a base,
an open top
and turn it
into a vase.
i laugh.
infinite
bubbles
rumbling
upwards.
then,
quiet
distance.
b­linking.
sounds
of the
refrigerator.