under the weight of the universe,
a breath becomes a miracle
against the law of nature, the pervasive
cling of gravity on everything it touches.

every bit of me is against
the pull of the earth. my ribs heave.
it satiates the hunger of my lungs
for space, for its place.

when I tire, and succumb to the force
demonstrate that in my most serene
- supine and asleep, I fought to live,
for every breath is a miracle.

now, i can only grasp
how it resonates.
thunderous in chambers
seeping into crevices
to which light cracks.

a feather, even
if anger was a boulder
i rather shoulder.

is navigated by a steady ghost.

apple of the eye,
red lip with a poisoned kiss,
peonies for the dead.

i am no object
shattered, unlike paperweight
i’m meant to cut deep.

was a sticky mess dripping slowly
down the broken walls of
what we called home, and i

the ever so buzy bee who hover
to stare from a distance remain
as my gut twists of hunger

for the continued days
of work: measuring the rooms
that would strategically contain

our— my, remaining efforts
in keeping this symbiosis a force
enough to drive through

the blistering storms and past
what you thought was the drought.
but this, is the fallout

where the flowers cease to bloom
and the sun grows weary
to shine on leftovers

of what we called was home
as honey drips ever so slowly
into a painful mess to clean.

every time my phone dings that chime I set,

our patterend steps have been
evenly paced
but sometimes i miss
a few, just so our hands won’t
graze
— a metronome
back and forth.

though I’d still steal
a glance from it: soft
fingers on keys, light wrist
on the right beat,
slender
palms fit
in my sweater sleeve.

wondering, how
quickly it can
thaw the frost in mine;
and before my boiling belly
boil over  
surrendering the
mistletoe nose;

how many are missing the same warmth I have yet to hold.

why do i feel caged
                                   —by the same fences, that was
               meant to make me safe.

snowflakes burn on the cheeks
filtering the clad of trees
with grey nostalgia underneath,

Mother said, "let's make
a scarf with those wings"
the commodity out of necessity

for the weather only permits
threads of white, to rest
as supine angel ghosts

remain like chalk pictures
of suns and dreams yet to be
on the street which colors fade

for she walks, with
a spool of feathers on her neck
wondering why,

she couldn't fly like everybody else.

Our efforts remain,
In landfills – incinerate,
Try reaching the sun.

suddenly all of the pens i own
are either gone,
empty,
broken,
or left alone
no amount of penniless pettiness
came from my mouth,
no mutters,
sobs,
nor silence left
to give,
forgive the narratives,
which lingers
inching
the tip
of thy fingers,
that holds restless
itching
to scab and release
what remains
in scars
the pus which ferments
on hatred and
the scent
burning cocoa beans and smoke
that knocks on my eyes
a blurry vision
despite
rose-tainted glasses,
the taste
of bitterness
in farewell.

Question:

But without these words, the thought would not be complete.
Words are enough to achieve a certain feat.
Verses bring life to complex emotions from stone.
But some emotions are better expressed by words alone.

Answer:

Words may be a brainchild of the senses,
a cousin of shrouded feelings,
a distant lover of hopeful wishes.

But it would always remain in papyrus,
in coffee-stained napkins,
in the whisper of the breeze.

What are compound syllables without action,
without justified reason,
without the process for progress.

This
isn't
how
things
should
go:

a slow exhaust
from the efforts
of holding on,

to existing outside
the pages of history.

For a simple wish
Count on something to perish
Nothing to cherish.

your smile, a spotlight carelessly blinding from a mile.
your hands, of warm summer —a soft paradise.
your cheeks, a little rosy when I speak.
your mind, complex as your words.
your eyes, a universe in demise.
your cry, harmonizing mine.
your lips, I left unkissed.

despite everything,
my memory of you,
is vividly fleeting,
as if you didn't.

Oh, how the sunset boasts
of beauty and majestic hues tinted
for which everything its finger touches
like a king, greater than Midas could ever be
boastful as it resurrects, humbly
opening another dawn.

And there lies the moon
settling between the brilliance
of the days to and had come, without
a shroud of pride - the sun's magnificence
shares half the credit to the lamp
which waits in the dark.

Paper cuts on wrist linger:
     like trickles of pain,
     bearable to hold;
     with trickle of tears,
     little to be told.

Invisible abrasions:
    on skin so precious,
    patches of triumph;
    the battle rages on,
    wince at every sting.

Unnecessary bandages:
    don't elevate pain,
    hide struggles under;
    to embrace each scrape,
    takes more than courage.
    
Petroleum jelly helps:
    fingertips cover,
    dollops to ease itch;
    sometimes humans need,
    catalysis to heal.

This is how it starts,
A coincidental kiss–
And where it must end.

Stepping through
come along
with the light
spring paintings.

Time slips by
framed
with the vivid
saturated films.

The void you left
was filled
with the best
sad stories.

Your being
Is art.

No written poems,
Nor lyrical prose left unsung,
Such beauty confine.

Longing is the home,
As punishment to who steal,
The art you behold.

Life throws,
a filthy shade,
a crate of lemons,
a mess unmade.

Life makes,
a sailor great,
lemonade,
a near parade.

All at once,
Once and for all,
No things remain
The same
—The sane.

To run into your composure,
To take the worries away,
To hear your heart like a whisper,
That everything will be okay.

Not like this,
Not even a kilometer apart,
Not in this way,
No one can hardly look to stare.

Even if the streams decide to flow,
Even as the stars tremble,
Even when the rain shook cold,
Either of us is a safe place.

To house our feeding fire,
Not every flint sparks a flame,
Even we deserve the warmth,
You are never alone in the dark.

But I need you now;
Your existence, just like howー
I needed you then.

It wasn't insomnia,
Nor the nightmares;
It was practice and edits,
That kept us awake

                  "I love you."
                                    "Go get some sleep."
                   "Yeah. I guess so."

I tried and failed,
Another attempt;
Just to hear the words,
And my name instead.

****** of the talk
Stopped there, "we have tomorrow";
It was her last night.

Crossing the road
When I was eight years old,
I was sure that cars would stop
At the little girl in red.

From the other side,
The stretch seems like forever;
Running fast from something,
Or someone I wasn't sure of.

Mom would scold,
Friends would shout cold;
Warm gustling winds,
Passing swiftly was home.

Crossing the road,
Now I'm twice as old,
I'm sure the car didn't miss me,
Because I missed it instead.

When we made a pact,
Only between you and me;
That we’ll see all the colors
That our eyes could see


The picnic days were pink,
From the cotton candy that we eat,
Saw yellow bliss in your smile,
As you saw the dandelions bloom by.


I saw orange in sunsets;
While in the solace of your embrace,
Every month had purple,
From the violets and lavenders you gave.


And then you came home.
With red lipstick on your face;
It was pouring, dark and grey,
Then I knew the blues are coming our way.

When half became more,
Than one over nothing else,
Whole yet undefined.

Silver flakes tarnish,
She left for gold; all along,
He was platinum.

One flight higher,
One step up.

Two eyes would meet,
One will surrender.

Right foot step,
Left heel back.

Straight to the darkness,
Fell head over heels.

One step higher,
One slip up.

Falling in pieces ,
Faking broken smiles.

Feet forward,
Pride stares back.

No stairway drama,
Just a storybook end.

Brought up by fate,
As miracles from the carcasses remain;
Melted down by the Sun,
Heavily molded by the suffocation of none.

She grew up with nothing else,
Than the ever-burning star for company;
Void of everything but hope,
For the foreign feeling of being wanted.

The allusion from the radiation,
Made her dream of heraldic luminescence;
To be a necessity for existence,
And finally find the purpose of her own.

As the darkness hover over,
Comes the dejection of the recognition;
That a shooting star like her,
Was meant to crash and burn eventually.