“How do you feel?” I ask again. I, knowing the answer, poke my head into the lion's den. I feel the ghost of your frustrations floating about in the confined space. It haunts the room as our shadows strangle each other.

“What is the opposite of homesick?“ You ask.

“Homesick, ” I answer.

In your palms, a lingering remnant of moonlight
traces your fingerprints,
And it illuminates shards of evening rain that have landed on your skin as droplets of hope.
Together a nebula is painted on your hands,

And you find tranquility in evening wakefulness.

Dear capricious heart,
I’m sorry for leaving you at the door step of my past self.
I know you’re built with wings that can’t take you to the sky,
But I was made of broken bones, my identity split between a continental divide,
And I was yearning for the moment that I’d come to terms with ambiguity.

Now I feel at ease,
knowing you’ve found comfort in the changing of the seasons,

And I have conquered the impossible task of hearing you beat without apprehension

A cloud rests on the surface of the earth
and my heart, like a paperweight,  
tethers me to the stormy waters.  
I can’t foresee where I’m heading.  
But there’s something in the heavy air
compelling my lungs conform to the feeling
of letting go

I found that the cracks in my skin began to heal whenever the moonlight lingered by my window,
during the nights when I let the wind bring in its cooling remedies.

I would sit still, lost in my head,  
With a storm brewing in my swollen heart,
Ruminating as I opened my eyes,  
And I watched the dainty fabric of my curtains as they danced with the cold breeze.
Slowly sunlight leaked into the sky as birds sang their delicate songs,

And I found my restlessness fast asleep on my palms.
For a moment, time was standing still and I was...

healing.

I lay here searching for wakefulness
hours after sunrise.
Outside, remnants of a soft pink rest
among new-born grey clouds,  
And embers of a morning sun fade away.

I admire the transitioning sky, remembering how this life is a mystifying blur made of hellos and goodbyes.

Although moments are fleeting,
so are worries,
Even summer’s goodbye,
Is a mosaic of pigments
That one can not help but stare
In absolute admiration

Good things end,
and better things begin.