I’m a ghost,
peering at my physical body down below—
there but not really there
I’m a stranger
looking on the burning world
with cold, unseeing eyes
I’m the haze, the curtain
veiling the living and the dead
I’m alone

distant is the faerie light and bar music,
quiet is the soft thrumming of your heart
against my fingertips —
speaking a language of old dreams
and poignant powder scent
sweet is the viscaria tinted in innocent pink,
twirling in the cup of my palm, asking —
"would you dance with me?"

Fickle is the
swirling haze of purple clouds
whispering phantom pleasure of a fleeting crowd
soft lilac and sorrowful wisteria
musing with the late spring’s hysteria

shapeless longing, lingering perfume,
remnants of your wet sleeve,
where are you?
distant match-figures hiking
along the ***** of the mountain;
a row of diligent ants, circling
the crimson rose bud —
sweet sorrow is the dew nestled
within the blooming petals —
grow, wither, and fall —
forgotten.

When the old world came to an end,
we would slow dance in the kitchen
to the song of apocalypse,
hiding behind the bars of music notes,
and imagined a world anew.

The snow collapses on top of each other,
the crystalline flakes stacking up prettily;
winter is the season when
beauty falls in disarray

Flashes of silvery scales
that formed an endless chalky chain,
casting back my jarring image,
distorted by the watery current of life;
my mouth opened and closed,
my eyes lost in a daze;
the unblinking eyes of the milkfish
as they stared deep into the void
mirrored back to me
like moon to the lake
I mused to myself
whether
the milkfish knew they were
forever swimming in circles;
and they mused to themselves
if
the humans knew they were
forever walking in circles.