Nights are sometimes starless,
Even the farthest astronaut knows this.
Not always will the stars ask for a midnight snack.
And at times the moon would have to turn its back—
Keeping itself hidden behind the clouds.

A thousand fireflies do not bring heat,
Though light is what they seem to emit.

Every time the sun grows tired of burning the sky,
People would begin celebrating its forfeit.
And at times a lantern is just enough to live by—
Keeping the night warm and lit.

I've been crying underwater,
Not because of the sea salt
Or because of whoever's fault —
My eyes are just fated to whimper.

Then you came, not to stop the tears —
Underwater, you have lent your ears.
Beneath where feet refuse to stay,
In times when it's easier to be astray,
Guide me back.

Paper coffins cannot contain us.
Aren't we more than what we were?
However, though, we ignore hiatus,
I know that we are bound to falter.
Not always can the tired eyes try to hide.
Give them all the rest you can provide,
And don't ever be caught in the landslide.

One backstabbing cup of coffee
Makes summer read rotting pages of poetry.
And if spring finds the paper coffin,
Not a single skeleton will be left unseen.

I have made it through winters—
Got some waning moons on my dime.
Now with a single gem in my purse,
All that's left is for new poems to rhyme.

There's no room for another autumn.

To the faint moon and deep breaths,
Orange-sky nightmares and lucid dreams,
Piles of abysses eaten by hyacinths —
Even though dawn is never promised,
Recently, I’m not roaming the night alone.

Zeppelins, blimps, and a chopper —
Over the moonlit sky they hover.
Pleased to be not alone under the stars
Even when all we have are empty jars.
Live like we’re immortal we shall.

Just when I thought the night was long,
Eventual thoughts came like a song —
Reminding me of a potential epilogue,
One that possesses a silent dialogue.
Memory is the last thing I want you to be.

Messy handwriting,
Even messier poetry—
None meant anything;
Got only to shadowbox misery.
Guess the weather has changed now,
And it’s more bearable somehow.
Smiles begin to be put into words,
And poems start to be sung with birds.
Unwritten is my sad usual palette
Right after our paths have met.