This isn't home,
but I will nestle in for the season
and pretend that I belong.
I will bury my face in the curve of his shoulder
and let him play with my fingers
through Nepalese gloves
and he won't even ask
what's going on in that
pretty little head of mine.
We speak of snow and poetry
and all of the girls in his bed
and he admires the angle of my chin
despite the cracks of voice.
I don't think about the distance anymore.
I swear, your name is on my tongue,
I make the effort to say nothing,
only to find I have nothing left to say.
nothing holds enough importance
to make a conversation of.
I can predict what he will text back
just when I think I know who you are,
a different man faces me.
I think they all know
that I'm growing tired of these guessing games.
I wonder if your eyes still know me
I wonder if they'd recognize my face
I wonder if they'd water if they saw me
I wonder if I've even left a trace
I wonder if I'm in your veins
I wonder if you've gone insane
I wonder if you can still feel me
I wonder if you even miss me
I wonder if you wonder about me
I wonder if you wonder how I feel
I wonder if you even give a damn
I wonder if our love is even real
What is your poetry, my friend?
Is it the cool spring day that bounces
off your clothes after a long winter mourning;
the spine-chilling defrosting session
you have when the sun finally rises
and the forward look to the light of a new day.
Or is it the morning silence of a library,
hot teas, and warm crumpets, that carries
your imagination far far away
after forgetting the chaos of yesterday.
Your poetry is your happy place,
your depressed face, your angry taste,
and an exhausted out space...
Your race to the moon and back
before mother tucks you in
and turns off the lights.
It's the bad blues news
and the good old days' anthem
that hums on long to the Sunday tunes
without a care in the world.
What is our poetry, my friend?
Is it a couple of pals laying waste
to the grass below our restless bodies
as we gaze up into the galaxy
and pronounce what is your and mine;
the grass clumping together in our hands
and spilling all over each other's hair.
Or is it the strum of your guitar
and the beat of my hands clashing
against each other to make a sweat
Yet miserable lullaby for our hearts
to pour our into the beach we set camp at.
The waves matching our irregular beat
with its own casual style
that loves to ride up onto our toes mid-chorus.
Our Poetry is what we make of it.
love letters dabbled back and forth
across the classroom get caught
just to share the love we have
with everybody else who doesn't have.
The glittering looks we give
when everyone bursts out laughing
because we know they know
they will never come close to us;
not even second place.
The tear drop memories of what was
and what coulda woulda shoulda been
but now isn't there for us to even cry on;
just cold shoulders and salty whispers
about the past, that should never have been
because it makes up too much pain for the present.
I don't like the space in the unmade bed obviously habited by you moments before.
I don't like making it disappear by rearranging the warm sheets and covers.
I like knowing your scent will be laying there that night,
waiting to whisper nothings in my sleep.
I don't like feeling like I can almost touch you, my memory damp yet failing.
I don't like it when you leave.
The world is just as loud and trembling as it's always been.
if you let it, you can feel it crash down on your shoulders,
turn to rumble.
I never wish to become an empty vessel used only to pour seeds and dirt.
I don't like it when you leave.
The inescapable feeling, the fugitive instant just after we kiss and last glance at the other's irises.
The cars go by.
The world goes by.
Do you feel it too?
the pulling of strings or whatever it is that binds us and the universe.
I don't like it when you leave.
absence ties the knots a bit tighter,
a bit closer,
making daisies seem less suitable for a funeral,
and more like a welcome home sign.
Was it me, you?
I could not know.
As you sit by the veranda, I watched us fall down feet from each other
Years ago, our legs were entangled.
A choice made, that would change my life
Moving, living, and being together - then, nothing planned.
And now we don't see our plans as one,
And who could say what made that happen...
This is the place where he lay his head,
When he went to bed at night,
And this is the place our demons were derived
Candles lit the room at night.
this is the place where he cut his wrists
That odd and fateful night.
This is the place where we used to live,
I paid for it with love and blood,
And these are the boxes that he kept on the shelf,
Filled with his poetry and stuff.
this is the room where he took the razor,
And cut his wrists that strange and fateful night.
I never would have started if I'd known
That it'd end this way.
His body didn't last forever,
It decomposed with time.
But the memories I'll always treasure,
Will last me until the day that I die.
our love is,
dreary morning eyes
& the sun peeking through
mouths that still reek of dreams,
& smiles that soothe
our love is foggy windows
& sweaty bodies
the scent of your skin
& the scent of mine
nights that slip away
& the star above that shines
our love is smooth words
& voices still tainted by sleep
faces painted with smiles
& kisses that make you weak
our love is the position only
our bodies know
the entire continent of us
a map connecting fate
& a vulnerability that feels safe
our love is watching 80s music videos in bed
entangled & innate
laughing just because
it is something to appreciate
our love is adventure-filled days
& treasured memories to keep
a feeling deep within
as our hearts take a leap
our love is a method of praise
your presence like heaven
lost in a blissful daze
i wonder, all of my life, where have you been?
When I was in primary school,
we were in a classroom learning of nouns and things.
Fill in the blanks.
Can you hold a chair? Yes. I answered.
Can you hear a bee? Yes.
Can you smell a smile? No.
Can you see love? No.
All my answeres were correct.
4 on 4.
The thing is, one of them was wrong.
You can see love.
That I would encounter later in life, of course.
At 13, I had the privledge of looking into a boy's eyes knowing he loved me back.
And for a fleeting moment,
if you get as lucky as I did with love, perhaps you'll see it too.
Let me tell you,
It happens in the eyes.
They remain the same, large, brown, soft and oddly addictive.
They don't change the colour,
they don't dilate,
they don't display northern lights,
oh, but you'll know.
It would a moment that halts and everything drops,
the world halts because you're laughing and he's laughing.
Everything is so genuine.
Everything is pure.
Then there it would be, in the eyes,
I can't say if it's a flicker,
or a trick of the mind,
or if the eyes actually go dark
but I swear solomon, it happens.
There are a lot of things in life that I've missed out on.
Sometimes willingly and sometimes without having the slightest of clue;
but how many people can say that they've see what I've seen?
I think it would be one of the last thoughts I'd have, if I were to go,
at least I saw love.