This is a poem about an
Unfinished love affair --
Like the bottle of milk left
Overnight by the counter
Where we kissed for the
First time.
Like the fruits on the table
turned sour.
I remember what you said
when I saw you for the
Last time.
(dear darling I am so sorry
For my wrong do doings)
(thank you my angel my sugar
My love my regret)
But you do not understand
And never will
That I did this for myself
And never you.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
I watch your hands
As they touch things--
(swirl a pen,turn a page)
And recall how heavy they were
When you held me
Tentatively, wonderfully, fearfully
Like an unripe peach, a lotus bud,
How you did with me things
You couldn't do alone.
And your hands still move as if
Still promising to do the same for me.
And I thought: be still, my heart
Time makes excuses for itself.
Then feel, with a slight tenderness
And a drag of regret,
This lost love.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
you who sit huddled away from me
retreating into a home not home
a warmth not desired by any chamber in your heart and freezing mine you who were born some three hundred days before me yelling with your infant breath the fate of me of you of us you who stare intently passing torrents of electrifying passion through the fluid remains of my soul and
you who possess a playful tenderness an animalistic wildness a maturity not yet attached onto the cold of your skull what is
the shade of your lips and the shape of your teeth and the indentations of your heart?
I long to know the intricacies the curvature of your inch by inch holding up in my two hands as if handling a museum and tell you softly whispering on the lobe of the ear my dreams my hopes my insatiable desire to be yours
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Tear down my skin and I am a piece of white flesh
Cut me and you will find darkness
Reek of pink champagne and blood
And a smell of desire and greed
Slice me on my lips and you will find
Coldness. Steel fingers and plated heart
And still i bleed
Down the sides of my mouth and from all ways i bleed
***** breaths and i melt into
A muddy concoction of emptiness.
Burn me into nothing but flesh and blood and i shall rise like dust i rise
Like the smoke i rise
And like your heartbeat i stay alive.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
You were freer than a free verse
And even sonnets could not keep you.
Tonight we got drunk on papayas,
Sitting on the sidewalk sipping
drinks, careless laughter
exploding from our mouths when
the moon split itself
Down our throats. In the messy
medley of the night I felt you on
my skin, remember:
How I lost myself in the fine lines
Of your lips where you claim
Your flaws fall into.
How I tried to swallow them like
apricots and how - in almost exact reciprocation
Of the same passion -
your eyelid moves which say:
I love you as much as I love God.
You are four light years away
And tonight I got drunk on papayas.
This is not a poem because
Sonnets could not keep you safe
And free verses compete but lose
Their flame, for
Like a landslide you let love slide,
I let love leave then.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
We'll meet again
Behind the sunset
The light of dawn
The hues of blue and pink
We'll meet again
We'll meet again
Behind a bookshelf
Behind a swinging door
Behind your eyelid moves
I see you and
We'll meet again
And when we meet again
Tell me how you feel
When we meet again
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
He loved me with the fierceness of a friday night
(Wine, smoke and moving hips)
You loved me with the tenderness of a tuesday morning
(Blinds, sunlight and fingertips)
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
In the morning she eats garlic,
A bowl of them, boiled in a mixture.
Then medicine, then some kind of a
Breakfast. She stares into the blank
Of a day. Everything the same.
She does her usual things: clean,
Sweep, exercise, sometimes she reads.
I do not know what she does in the day,
Only the setting sun tells me of the lights
She doesn’t leave on, because “electrical bills”.
He says she spoiled the fridge, the kettle,
Even the tv doesn’t make a sound anymore.
She’s like a child. She whines, laughs,
Tells me off. She observes, dismisses.
She is the dying tip of an autumn leaf.
My silence is the autumn wind.
Cold, but not cold enough.
I do not know of the things she does in the day.
What does she do when the food is cooking in the pan?
Or when it rains and she rushes to save the laundry.
Only the chattering and muttering
From her creased mouth,
(the neighbours, groceries, the tv)
Tells me that she speaks only to herself.
She switches the tv on
before she leaves the house.
She sleeps before 9 pm.
She leaves in June, and I don’t know what she does in the day.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
We have grown into fresh peaches,
Full blooming curves, rosy surfaces.
Each teeming with the desire
To be handled by a pair of hands.
So, tell me little peach,
How did it feel like to have your juice
Run down his throat?
We are no longer flower childs,
We are maidens, suddenly seated in front
Of the mirror, the ends of our hair
Carrying the weight of our youth.
Mornings, i sit with my knees
propped up like a temple and I pray
that love come as close as loneliness does.
(One night I tried to kiss my own arms
-a train track from elbows to wrists to fingers-
With the lights off. Was it my lips or arm that burned?
In the interlude of tears between my closed eyes
I wondered what it’ll be like
To have another claim me by the mouth
Like that.)
Even when I’m not in love
I’m more in love than you are
In love.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC