I cradle the moon in my hands and extend it to you.

To be swept far away, submerged in the waves

Adrift, I miss the starry night.

To say our love is in its death throes
is to give it the gravitas
of a body. And like a dead body, it is
slowly bleeding out. But when a body
reaches the end, it has lived
and our love has hardly taken shallow
breaths. maybe it was never born.
Our love is closer to an orange left
in the decorative bowl of fruit,
not in my own home, but my mother's, too
long and forgotten until it begins to smell.
This love-is it rotting or soft.
Or maybe not at all.

I am accustomed to being a first
love. This is not an infatuation with pure
or loving the untouched. It is
an infatuation with the losing
dogs. In school, my best subject was always
English, my second best subject:
history. The past is important. I only
know how to work through my history
with words. I cannot work through
someone else's history with my
words. When I am not a first
love, I want to write to the loves
who came before me. But how do
I write to a love that was not mine?
I imagine it would start with
an apology.

Hope-
is a funny word,
you know.

Though it's comprised of
only four alphabets,
but, to most of the living things,
it has no boundary,
it has no end.

Realizing the inherent fact
that, most of the hopes
just evaporate,
or, may remain at the cocoon,
or, may never see the face of light.

All hopes, however, remain
for days-months-years,
throughout their lives
in dispire!

Not realizing the other fact
that, hope belongs to the eternity.

while my guitar gently weeps

i listen in regret.
as she lays silent  
underneath the bed frame of my childhood. there are
memories packed into the pastel yellow duvet
that i clutched to comfort my fear
of letting go
of figures in the past time.

i never learned to play her
and the shame overcomes me when
acoustics touch my heartstrings tenderly. i grieve for
her life for it has been so isolated.
she is simply "what could have been"
an awakening that has yet to rise
and escape into masterpieces

i long for her while i never truly knew her
at all
her infinite potential to create such
flawless forms of storytelling

i long for the forgone companionship  
encompassed so deeply
though for now she rests still
beside scrapbooks crowded into
spaces without room to breathe
or purpose to see the light
of the morning

When you get the news you may be dying, chocolate doesn’t taste any sweeter.