I. I cannot seem to picture holes in my body like most
people do. That popular metaphor they use to represent
loss. I think of those cardboard boxes that come in different
shapes, displayed in bookstores. Those you don't especially
need but feel like walking away with like they've
always been yours. One resembles an emptied
pool, another like a cake eaten so carefully, the sponge
remains barely intact, imitating a box. And yet, for some
reason, you don't want to put anything in them. They look appealing
as they are, empty. When a friend loses something, maybe a
blown-off cap, I picture a green oblong box neatly caved
in his crown, through his skull. I can't visualize a hole, or
a collapsed floorboard, nor dug-out soil. Assorted colored
boxes in odd shapes, at different locations and time, fitting
flawlessly, like an expensive upgraded sink, through people's
body parts. Sometimes I picture them with a lid on but
they're still visible: an obvious bright patch of cardboard ingrained
in someone's palm, or at one side of another's abdomen.
II. Holes, usually from gunshot, are intentionally plumbed
by nature and open till the other end. True loss, to become
irretrievable, has to have an element of reach and is then
restricted by space—tracing inevitability. You lose a phone
and you search through the rectangle case by your thigh,
and seize nothing, there's only cardboard and skin.
III. You lose someone. But an entire
box the shape of your body can't possibly replace you
or your whole skeletal system would pop out. So you imagine
that loss, an open cocoon, as a single organ—a heart, or
at least half of it. You can't tell whether that side is capable
of beating, but when you knock on it, it sounds the same. You feel that compartment in your chest and it's all solid and compact,
maybe even scratchy. You reach and your hand doesn't go
through. Of course, it never arrived like a bullet. You deliberately
chose to put something in that box. And as much as you
rather wanted to see that bright ear-shaped box empty, leaving
it's contents to imagination, you compromised, thinking
half a heart wouldn't take too much space. And losing
that person, you think back on the day you first got the
box. It was never meant to be filled, you imagine. It looked
better on a shelf behind glass among other colored boxes:
firm as new and all equally fragile, maybe even
bearing a scent or taste. I believe this is one way to cope with loss,
by disassociating it—turning it into a pretty spectacle you'd want to
buy but don't, just another section one passes in a mall.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
I'm terrified of traveling along any major body of water
I feel uncomfortable imagining how low a rock could sink
Yet I don't mind flying against the skies above the clouds
I'm curious as to how high birds could lift their wings
And yet I know that oceans and seas have a bottom floor
While the darker blue of the sky is too vast to have bounds
So maybe I just like places that don't act as cages
And I fear the things that I'll eventually come around
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 5:51 AM UTC
Hey there
Skater girl
You got me all twirled up inside
When you made those turns
I get goosebumps
When you swerve right by me
I'm pretty sure it was you
And not the evening chill
And yes it was late
The lampposts were on
And the traffic lights
Out of sight
Why should anyone
Tell you when to stop or go
You were an unchained thing
You had the road all for yourself
And I had that night
To see you scribble in your strides
You did ballet, not on thin ice,
But on rough pavements
For life was not always
A smooth and clear ground
It can be a lonely
Concrete street
It can be you right now
Free and astound
With me in the distance
At first glance
It'll seem like
You're free-rolling
But I know
It's really art
In its abstract form
The solid, rigid sound of wheels
Scraping ground
Is tranquilizing
To our left is a quiet parking lot
And at the right, a multipurpose home
While I'm sitting on grass
In a suit
Please don't mind me
And keep on skating
Skater girl
Doodle me a way
Map me a dance
With the tracks of your skates
In this fast-rolling world
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 8:01 AM UTC
She wore an olive fleece
He wore a beige corduroy
She was a princess in sneakers
He was a modern man of Troy
(But their coats were merely frames
Their shirts were exactly the same)
She brought home brewed coffee
He sipped lukewarm cocoa
She was chained to yesterday
He was impatient for tomorrow
She sat on the stone slab
He laid down with arms tied
She was to the left of him
He was right beside
She took pictures of the lake
He stared into the sky
She carried a small knapsack
He held a lost goodbye
While around them,
Two lovers flirted from afar
A middle aged man sat alone
A mom and dad spoiled their kids
A group of students headed home
Yet, the two remained there
On that grassy concrete brick
Sharing a single tiny shade
Repeating the same old tune
All they did that afternoon
A moment they had played
That'll only be a memory soon
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
The books you carry are so expressive
Some pages have those obvious gaps
That show even when the book is closed
They point put the places you've reread
Over and over again
Or the pages you've kept open for too long
Some have plastic covers, while others, leather wraps
Which to me hint favoritism
Or the pricelessness of your literary artifacts
While some don't even have covers anymore
But thats okay, cause with you,
The books don't ever have to feel cold
Some have bookmarks you've bought in the past
Cause you thought they were cute or had a nice quote
While other bookmarks you've made yourself
Out of cut-out folders, and sticky notes
And some have strings, while others don't
Some pages have highlights along the text
Maybe of lines you want to remember
Or of moments you want to feel again
Of places you want to visit in the future
Or of words you have yet to comprehend
Some areas have spills and stains
Perhaps from drinks that refreshed you
As you flipped through page by page
While some look like tear drops
From when characters rode with you
But left to catch some other train
Or maybe you just fell asleep reading
And it could have been just the rain
The books you carry are so expressive
Some titles are familiar, while others new
And I just can't help but wonder
How they all seem to be a reflection of you
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 4:44 AM UTC
If I stood on top
Some polar planet
And looked for you
Among the traffic
Of meteor showers
And beyond that I'd see
Only vast empty space
Don't worry cause
I've not yet laid us down
For then I'd know for sure
You're just somewhere in
Illusive Earth
Perhaps sitting inside
Some cliché cafe
Stirring, brewing up
A Mocha galaxy
On your creamy latte
Listening to
Treasure Planet Soundtracks
Like that one entitled
"I'm Still Here"
But if ever you just
Suddenly get up
And leave an empty spot
In that tiny world
Inside me
Temporarily
Asking for space
In between
When there's enough around
And more above
Then I might begin
To wonder
Where at this moment
In this infinite
Zero-gravity
Could you possibly
Be drifting now
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 4:40 AM UTC
Tell her that she's loved,
Even if she denies. Cause,
You know otherwise
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
Hit me hard and break my heart into a million pieces
Cause only then will you see how much its worth
Don't settle for a dozen scraps, a hundred, or a thousand
Strike with passion and leave a mess upon the earth
Then watch me as I pick up every piece that was scattered,
From the loftiest clouds they perched, and crevices they slipped
Now take them from my hand and hold it in yours all together
And feel the weight of the million pieces that you had ripped
I want you to see how they still mold and form the same original shape
How a million pieces could be reattached and still reveal a heart
Yet, do not mistake their lightness for instability or lack of focus
They can also be diamond tough; my soul is the fortress, while it, the rampart
Its not some plastic easter egg thats only as good as its design
Not a false brittle shell, with a hollow and empty core
Each piece accounts apiece, a full apple with no worm
Every heartbreak meant to make it, love even better, than before
So if you're looking for commitment, let that be the trial
I'm not promising it'd be easy, it can only be worth the pain
It's only in shattered hearts, that subtle thoughts are brought to light
Neither the first nor the last, but I'd repeat it all the same,
If you're the one I'm about to gain.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
You told me back then that its fine because its over,
And everything that happened should be all in the past.
Then why is it now, that every time we pass each other,
You'd make me feel like, that conversation was our last?
I admit that I, myself, didn't offer you my everything,
And that the chase I gave, wasn't even barely a run.
But how could I sprint, when your signs were confusing?
And the I Love You's you gave, all came out undone.
So it turns out that the rain, didn't properly end.
And puddles still form, from small drops that remain.
Those sunny skies of blue were all just make pretend;
Like parts of the weather forecast, that you failed to explain.
Second chance is a slot machine, and I'm running out of change.
So I'll drop my last coin, under the score of my name.
Because the next time we meet, either the spin goes out of range,
Or the coin comes back out, and it was all just a game.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
I ponder now, to the years ago,
To what came on every Christmas Eve.
About the gift that I could get,
The perfect gift to have or to receive.
I was only seven, many fleeting years ago,
And I loved all kinds of dessert.
So then, to get the perfect gift,
A chocolate cake was all its worth.
I was asked at 12 to choose my gift
And a new typewriter was all I said.
At a time when technology had once been young,
I was pleased with mine, a branded crimson red.
12 more years passed by and I could not find
A better gift than what I got years ago in my life.
At 40, I celebrate the 8th anniversary
Of the lovey-dovey years I that I spent with my wife.
I'm 55 and weeping, for now both my parents are gone.
My dad just died a week ago, at the ripe age of 83.
If time was a gift, I'd give it to those I love.
Christmas just isn't as complete as it used to be.
It's Christmas yet I'm dying, and loved-ones use the tongue of tears.
My final wish would only be to have my whole life encoded in memory;
For memories are all that I can leave, and all that I could bring,
From all the blessed 86 years-God's own Christmas gift to me.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC