I could tell you my story
And make it rhyme
But you would think
I was lying

From Afar,
I observed,
through the mirror your beautiful,
porcelain skin had started to crack.

From Afar,
I worried,
you would have no reason,
after reason had turned her back.

From Afar,
I admired the way you poured gold,
in the places you lacked.

he touched her by mistake,
staggering, almost falling off her feet,
eyes soon enough met,
the light seemed like a piece of mirror
                thrown into them,
                                            shards,
a glassy glow,

    that shine you see sometimes in tears,
on her face as round as a rosy apple,
cheeks high to the sky, the lips careless

he could’ve reached out by accident
to catch her, perhaps, by the waist,
- ask from where she comes,
release her like a veil blown by the wind

THE SECRETION OF MEMORY

in an attic
( mottled with age)
mirror gazes upon mirror

a web attaches
( spun by a rather theatrical spider )
a primitive computer to a wall

a mouse scurries over
a dusty keyboard
the keys hungry for words

a tattered kite
stares at a sky
the clouds racing by

here is where
objects go to die
when the world abandons them

I too
an object abandoned
by my self

In this life you can meet someone
and then unmeet them in the process of time.
There will be days you will long for their presence,
and days where you wished you never met them at all.

In those paradoxes of life, I have found much meaning.
That life is meant to be lived and that it meant to hurt.
We are truly alive when we feel certain emotion, every emotion.
Every ups and every down reminds us of living the life.

That life is pretty and at the same time messed up,
That there is beauty in sadness,
and there is danger in too much happiness.