When dark arrives, tears follow
Heaving sobs to a baby’s sigh
It comes so suddenly—
An iron punch to the gut
Until I am doubled over, writhing
And when it finally passes
Delirium ensues
And every object surrounding
Turns a violent violet
So I curl into a ball and shake
Begging for morning
To keep me from mourning
The little girl that wasn’t

there’s that flower
the ancient rock by the street
we come of a village
a sinuous path
that leads to the next
but our village has no name
it is not of specifics
there is no history here
no identity to cling to
and no exotica to marvel over
it’s all the same to us
your village or ours
and we welcome with palms open;
there’s no dogma or Heavy Books
on our tables
we start with no musings
and we shape no theology
and grand ideas
all that we have is clarity
that blooms and withers, only to bloom again
no  affiliations, no special-ness
and it is the clouds
and the earth we read
in our village
in our homes
that go by no name or labels
and no exotica to marvel over
it’s all the same to us
your village or ours
and there’s that flower

So, what’s up?
Well, if you insist; nothing much.
Except,
Every time I see you,
I feel like our destinies collide,
Like our souls beam promises,
Like a mother and her child,
Like the color yellow,
Every time my eyes glare, they paint you,
Furious and loving,
Our bodies frozen,
My mind undresses you as you take my hand and ask me: What’s up?
You ask me what’s up as if it sums up all the rivers of a nation,
As if it tells of sin and the humor of knowledge,
As if up is where I’m going and rock bottom isn’t drowning my thoughts,
As if my mother still wants me,
As if my father thinks the world of me,
As if my lover never forgot me,
As if you want my answer,
What’s up?
What’s up with you?
What’s ahead of you? What’s above you?
Who watches over you?
What’s the sky like when heaven is nowhere in sight?
When pain eats away at sobriety,
When silence cracks minds and noise breaks glass faces,
What’s up?
I’m just alive,
... Inhale
You laugh because you think I said something funny,
I can’t tell you I haven’t looked up in a while,
I haven’t wondered about fairies and fairytales,
About what’s beyond this cloud, this sun, those barriers,
What’s up?
What’s up isn’t what I know,
What I know isn’t up,
Ask me once again,
Ask me who didn’t leave,
Who hears my words,
Who saw my tears,
When did I grow,
When did I fall,
Do I prefer tea over coffee,
Ask me of a universe I know nothing about,
A heaven my feet haven’t touched,
A thought that hasn’t crossed my mind,
Ask of persons lost, matter gained,
Piercings, physiology, my people’s faces,
Ask me once more,
What’s up?

The space she took in your bed, on your shelves, in the curses and the vows,
She hasn't been here, nor was she ever moving towards that direction,
You imagine the door she could walk through, the locks she wouldn't open,
The glances she wouldn't care to return, the loose garments that cover chapters she patiently learned,
She spoke of home and heavy promises,
But never to you,
She grows, filling the last pages of her people's books,
You paint her, you picture her,
She isn't clear but she is unforgettable,
You believe completely in her vision,
She knows things about you, about your death and about her desire to be your death,
You wait for her peace to bring you yours,
For the stillness of her mind to free yours,
Something isn't right with her, she isn't predetermined,
She isn't wind nor water nor an element of the changing sort,
Still, she isn't predetermined,
There isn't a thing on the planets nor skies that moves like her,
That dances with your art's rhythm like she does,
She flows with you, away from you,
Remember when she melted the black and red of you canvas,
She found love in your lines and detested the corners of the devilish margins,
She learned your craft from you and she mastered its perfect flaws,
Blame the times words weren't spoken,
Blame the splendor splatter of skin, the patterns of resistance,
Why won't she dance for you, flow towards you?
Was it the thought she overheard?
You couldn't tell if she was drawn or carved or weaved,
Did she step into your box?
Hollow out your venal lust,
You chase after the scents, the shadows, the colors,
You make out what her soul must look like,
She isn't sane, she isn't clever,
She is a fallacy, a fake,
She can't not see when her long verses cover your floors,
She can't not feel when she bends and twists to the indentations of your palms,
You touch the places she left for the stars to find,
You answer questions her path left discarded,
You believe, you know,
She refuses to linger around you, and why should she?
Your strung out desires are romanticize by your brush strokes,
But your flesh demonizes passion itself,
Your reality kills your art, and she loves only your art.

Sometimes in our journey, we meet strangers that we feel a kinship to; for no other reason than their existence. We wonder if we should put in some effort to get close to them, if we should go there and ask them if they want to grab a cup of coffee or something. And then the rest of life and its people get in the way. You're busy and distracted, but you still feel that tug. You let life take its course; if you're meant to know each other, you will. You have an arrogance that tells you: You're life is busy, they'll wait. All the while, that's exactly what their ego is telling them. So when time comes to pass and you've drifted apart, all you have to show for is a Facebook Friendship.