I miss the nights spent
Under warm candle light,
Writing poetry together
Under the sheets
Of stormy skies.

I miss the mornings
Slipping through the fingers
That play with strands
Of wine red hair
And porcelain skin.

I miss the days that
Could have been,
If only I would have been
Brave enough to see
Myself in your eyes.

I miss the evenings
Caressing the glow
Of your life-giving,
ever-beckoning lips.

I miss the moments
That never happened.
I miss what we've never shared.
I miss the love that might've...

our surf together is done, we ride different waves now,
you said you split your time in pockets
while i slice my potatoes into tiny, little dice,
so maybe we’re not too different after all.

(i’m glad i said what i wanted to say for a while now,
and i want to let you know that i really meant when i said,
i’m really gonna miss you.)

outskirts of
Seagull-Sunday
tethered
in darkness
the road
is moving
at the perfect
speed

intermediary
spaces
like peaceful
trees
blend into
the fog
of circling
insects

brittle
nocturnes
an overnight
journey
spent
staring out
the window

forming
itself
entirely out
of the interstitial
moments
that make
for a sort of
homecoming

You find me.
In the church bells of a Hozier song,
the sheets that without you feel wrong,
you bind me.
.
You remind me,
of our sunny morning walks,
of our silly grinning talks,
when you find me.
.
You touch every thought,
my eternal leitmotif;
no such battle fought
as with you, my heart-thief.
.
And I want to write words,
tell you how strongly I yearn,
but my mind sees absurds:
so each letter I burn.
.
And I'm terrified, paralyzed with fear;
I dread your heart will cool,
that you won't love me, my dear -
that I've been but a fool.
.
Chasing dreams, all in vain,
as I wonder who warms your bed;
So far away, across the pain,
racing terrors in my head.
.
An ocean between us, worlds apart,
I crave desperately for your embrace.
Yet still I'm silent, intrepid heart -
a grave of sorrow, sans your grace.
.

I recall when we’re all smiles,

Paper flow’rs and hot-pink dyes,

Virgils in the pitch black night,

Scrape and file till screws sit tight,

The toxic whiff of burnt plastic.

sirens blare and shutters close,
we sit calmly in our humble abode
until we smell the smell I’ve smelled
a thousand times and going strong.
we joke and skip idly around the stairs
in a fashionably orderly manner,
like in an empty amusement park.

“the fire smells good”, says someone,
and i nearly choke at the absurdity,
but i have to agree, it smells like
nostalgia, the plumes of charred plastic
filaments, remnants of 3d printers
bringing me back to better days.

as the chaos rolls along in the background,
we order truffle pasta from the vending machine,
giggle at the firemen who lost their way
and watch the sorry-excuse of a smoke
trailing away into the blindingly blue sky
as the exhausted sirens blare once again.

I wish my existence could be as poetic as my subconscious,
As graceful,
Elegantly dancing through life,
Like metaphors on a page,
Rain filling puddles,
Mud filling cracks,
Swaying arms of willow trees.
I think that I used to be that way,
I appear to be in the hazy happiness of my memories,
But I don’t trust my mind.
I look back on a life lived in pastels,
Baby blue skies,
Blush pink cheeks,
Sage green eyes,
Lilac dreams.
It’s all daisy chains and braids,
A freckled face,
Ferns and worms,
Rolling clouds and running streams.
I wonder now if those memories are just dreams,
Did they ever really happen?
Was I ever really happy?
Or was it all just manufactured to protect me,
A safety blanket,
A quilt handcrafted by my mother?
I wonder now if my life is just an amalgamation of stolen moments,
Memories stitched together by glorified nostalgia,
Fabricated by a veil so thin,
Made entirely of imagination,
A fictitious eulogy written by me as a child to remember the life I wish I had,
A life I’ve never lived,
A tortured poet trapped in a painfully privileged portrait.
Who can I trust if not myself to remember my own life?
I grew up cold,
Stuck in the rain with a broken umbrella,
With stormy eyes and a stormy mind,
Deep greens and blues,
Scarring scrapes from the sharpest scraps of misery.
I was born in the image of hatred,
Generational distaste that I inherited,
The quietest violence,
Gentle wrath buried beneath the softest reflection.
Tell me I’m beautiful,
Oh, how sweet,
Tiny and weak.
Admire all the lies I’ve told myself to stay alive,
Hiding my agony in metaphors,
Tucking it neatly between stanzas,
A great illusion,
Fallacious lines describing a person I'll never be.

I heard the blaring wails
Of strangers playing pin the tail
On the donkey

Reminds me of a time
When we use to play
Swing the flail
At the monkey

We were young
And feeling spunky

But when the morning comes again
I’ll see you then

Today I’ll wear my positive attitude
Just for you

Till the soil in the flowerbed
Even if I’m feeling blue

I know it may seem old school
That I’m still sipping sweet vermouth

The memories flair up
And I’m returned to youth

Come upstairs
I’m on Floor 2
The one that has
A distant view

Just a couple steps away
From knowing where you are
I feel your presence fade from me
You seem so very far

The little talks
And street lamp walks
I thought would bring us closer

What was I to do?

Worry not your pretty head
None of it was true

someone i know was stuck in singapore
when her father passed away in china
and lately, i think i've developed a fear
of flying, but for all of the wrong reasons

so while others' stomachs perform flips and
all the engines and babies incessantly whine
and while someone worries about their own death
i sit, wholly at peace with the possibility of mine

but still terrified for everything after you drop me off
i am so terrified to just board this plane and fly away
every time i have to turn and leave home again
i am terrified it will be the last time i see your face