there is something to be said, for
a twelve hour time difference
perhaps the train ride takes longer
when there is nothing to look forward to
that station it comes to a halt.
and there are moments i look up
at the crowd teeming along the stairs
and see your face in some other's -

how do you miss someone
you know will return?
there is waiting to be done,
and wait i will, for
my nine days wonder.
(come back.)

it's going on a long journey
with your suitcase packed
with all the essentials, you've
got your heart stowed safely
in your pocket and your coat
on your back, and every sunset
so many miles away from where
you started is beautiful. but now
you're finally home, the steps you
take all the way up to the front
door are assured and it all feels
so right but when you put your
key into the lock it doesn't
fit.

it's standing with your feet on the
mat and you haven't even taken
your shoes off and your suitcase
rests by your feet and your backpack
is growing heavier by the second and
the straps are cutting into your
shoulders but you can't breathe
and you can't see because you're
jamming the key into the lock
and you're confused so confused
and it just it just it just doesn't
fit.

it's looking through the windows
and seeing everything you've ever
known through glass panes and
nothing has changed within or maybe
it has but it hasn't, it hasn't and
everything is the same. the address
the mailbox the garden the door
(the lock?) it's all the same and you've
got that selfsame key in your hand,
but that can't have changed, only
you're trying, trying, but it still doesn't
fit.

it's watching the storm clouds gather
behind you and come closer closer
too close and you're screaming now,
your fists are slamming against the
wood and you're twisting the ****
and you think maybe if you cry loud
enough someone will come and open
it for you but nobody ever comes
and the lightning's about to strike you
down but the key just doesn't
fit.

it's the rain soaking you to the bone
and nobody has come for you and
the mat says welcome in gold and
red beneath your skinned knees and
you're looking at that key in your hand
and now you finally see it for what it is,
it's bent, twisted, rusted, broken, and
you finally understand why it doesn't
fit.

(and you wish someone had told you
that no matter how safely you keep
your key and how often you oil it one
day it's still going to fall apart betwixt
your fingers. you wish someone had told
you that no matter how far you run and no
matter how many times you say goodbye
and no matter how ready you think you are
you are never truly ready to leave and it
never stops hurting any less. you wish
someone had told you that the moment you
locked the door behind you, you should
have dropped your key in the grass because
no longer, not ever, never again, will it
fit.)

three years- count 'em-

it was papaya and pasta. 'vegetarian' fried rice with ikan bilis in it. an assignment that i failed. my room is above the kitchen, and sometimes i smell meat and curry and i still think, i still think,

of the kitchen that isn't mine. of utensils under the stove. of fingers butter-yellow and dappled with flour. three years- the sink still drips, drips, drips, i still shuck garlic with unskilled fingers,

three years, and you still smell like home

i will spend my whole life cupping your face in my trembling hands and pressing innocent kisses to the seamless curve of your jaw and still you will never know the sheer depths of my desire

until i put a bullet through my brain. they will have to pry the gun from my cold clenched fist but their hands will come away soiled with more than just gunpowder and iron, they will

find them all. my secrets, hidden away in the ridges of my fingerprints and the crags of my scars and the dips and valleys of a story that has spanned a lifetime, a sentence ended with

a comma. the air will hang heavy with all the lingering question marks that will never have their full stop, and they will smooth out the parchment-thin confession beneath their palms and learn of

my sins.

this is the god-honest truth: i was never as brave as you believed me to be, and;

this is the god-honest truth: i wanted you and always did, although i always knew i couldn't hold a candle to him, and;

this is the god-honest truth: i would have given anything, anything in the world and beyond it, to have been him, and;

they will stain my skin. these words of mine inked in blood and held in the vaults of my heart, in the deepest, darkest corners of the catacombs, this is the god-honest truth: i love you and always have.

what city this is, it's clear to me,
where silver steel is all i see,
winding, turning, to the left and right,
where no man is content to simply be.

it glitters and gleams even in the darkest night,
flickers with flashes of flint-edged light,
o, the people, with their long-dead eyes,
they know not the secrets this city hides.

o, the people, and their anguished cries,
i hear them all, the lies, the sighs,
alas! these very things i dread,
the city moves on, the clock ticks by.

a penny for drink, sir! a penny for bread,
a pound so i might find a city-bed,
no place to lay my city-head,
no place to lay my city-head.

these are the words they etch on your skin,
sentimental. selfish. too loud.
this is the legacy you leave behind,
vicious. violent. too proud.

this is all you try to be,
stronger. better. more.
while they stand and watch and turn their backs
as you crash and burn and fall.

but stand just a little straighter,
hold your head up high, my love,
you never had to be perfect,
or more than they deserved.

the due you owe for your place on this earth?
no silver. no gold. no fee.
nor is it for you to be flawless, faultless.
but simply just to be.

there are the love stories for the ages,
sweeping epics,
lasting legends,
tales immortalized in ink and song-

(- this is not a love story.)

this is the only beer i drink that night,
this is blue-streaked hair and beautiful eyes,
this is the mouth i want to kiss,
this is your plateful of truffle fries,
this is the sound of my name on your lips,
this is the embrace you wrap me in,
(this is me in a bar, down on my knees,
dear lord, forgive me, for i do sin)

(- this is a goodbye i can never say again.)

you were farewell from the very first hello,
broken heartbeats,
whispered longing,
ten minute love stories for the lost.

i.
i'm twelve years old the first time my life ever ends. the streamers and balloons hung up in the hall are gaudy and reminiscent of a garbage truck. graduation goes by faster than any of the hour-long rehearsals. perhaps it's my imagination, but the audience blurs out before my eyes when they hand me my makeshift diploma and i bow a last farewell.

basement one.
doors opening.

ii.
thirteen is a big deal. god is found in the depths of an abandoned foxhole and lost to the fading glamour of megachurches, pseudo-friendships, pomp and circumstance. maybe some goodbyes are for the better. it's a hard lesson to learn.

level one.
doors opening.

iii.
i'm fourteen and i haven't seen the world yet, raw and naive and soft to the touch. i open the newspaper in the morning, hoary in my hands, and i discover that some names don't make the front page until they're in lieu of an obituary. i never read the newspaper again.

level two.
doors opening.

iv.
when are you closer to twenty than you are to ten? it's competition season when the stroke occurs in a land abroad i know nothing about. i visit every day after school. these are not all lies: sometimes it's harder to see uv drips and nurses' charts than a gravestone.

level three.
doors opening.

v.
sweet sixteen is anything but. the previous statement is a flagrant lie- but then it has always been easier to say goodbye to the bitter and the reviled, than all we have ever known and loved. the walls of hospitals, of schoolyards, of departure halls, have heard the sincerest au revoirs, spilling summer-stained from unpainted lips and falling into shaking hands.

level four.
doors closing.

past:

step off the diving board. crest the currents. close your eyes and take a leap of faith. the unknown is not as sinister as it seems.

and when the windchill of disappointments bite down to the bone, remember
there is more to life than this.

future:

pause and breathe (in, out, in). cast your gaze on the sunbeams above. fall into the valleys of despair. when do we stop learning? we never really do.

and when the swell of nostalgia sweeps over you and wrings the air from your lungs, remember
the only easy day was yesterday.

present:

run. stay still. pace yourself. go breakneck. hold your tongue. spill the words. listen. speak. close your eyes. see the world.

and when the world is consumed by nothing but the now, remember
the breakers crash against the shore and the sand slips through your fingers-
every moment has its end.
and never are we ready for the beginning.

if everything else you abandon in the recesses of the life you left behind, remember this:

(when you are holding back the explosion of a scream in the middle of the corridors, when you have a fist in your mouth and sobs rising in your throat while sitting in a lonely corner, when everything seems hopeless and the only way out of despair and anguish is the bottle of pills on your desk or the ladder up to the roof)

- you will always have something to return to. beyond the brick and mortar, beyond the concrete and tile, beyond the only home you have ever called your own or known as yours.

because home is people.

it always has been.

beer and cigarettes,
your bitter lips, shaking hands
hold me close, my love

watch the sun rising
(golden rays through the window)
and let the light dawn.

this is how you leave- as if it isn't a last goodbye. as if tomorrow, the sun will rise once more and nothing will have changed. do not say 'forever'. believe with all your heart that you will return to all you have ever known, that the path you are walking has not diverged. lies are easy to tell.

this is how you leave- quietly, with all the tacit promises that silence avows. with your step as soft as rainfall. let your prayers be unspoken and may they never cross your lips. never make a wish you know to be futile. lies are hard to hear.

this is how you leave- with tears in your eyes and a scream lodged in the valley of your lungs. hold the city to your ears and your hands to your heart and let the sobs overwhelm you till you can no longer draw breath. then (and only then) bury the shards of your heart in the graveyard of forever, and move on.

this is how you leave- with pomp. with fanfare. with the knowledge that you have been the best you could be and done all you could do. remember to celebrate. there is so much more to life than the cotton-soft memories we fall back on when the landscape is bleak. the thorns are as important as the roses.

this is how you leave- as if you were never there at all. as if the years have been nothing more than a dream that leaves you where you wake. deny. forget. put a band-aid over the scar that gapes across the expanse of your chest, and sleep easy.

this is how you leave- you never really do. goodbyes are hard to say. but trust in your hellos. to every end there is a beginning, always and forever.

this is how you leave-

you don't.

to you, sweet stranger:
remember, remember.

hold a miracle in your hands-
lights; the light of all lights;
beyond the darkness,
before the end.

be like the roses-
know how it feels
to be sad. pathetic.
but alive, and real.

let nothing daunt you-
not fear. not might.
at the brink of deliverance
be truly infinite.

we break we burn
(the casualties are ceaseless)
to be the first to say goodbye
will never be a weakness

remember the sound of
the planes in the night
before the dawn breaks
so fair, so bright

let the light tremble-
let the trade winds blow,
may you never forget
all you have ever known.

for all that is lost
to the churning seas,
the kindness, the strength
never forget to be.

for truly there is no battle,
no war to be won.
the world is full of stories
but the stories are all one.

do you taste me on his lips
when you kiss them goodnight?

do you imagine me with my sleepy gaze
when you wake up in the morning
and the other side of the bed is empty,
the sheets pristine?

when he praises you on your promotion
how do you feel when you realize
his words are echoes of mine?

does he ever wake up in the middle of the night
to hear you whispering on the phone
to a girl whose name he's never heard of?

did your daughter question why
there was a lipstick stain
on the sleeve of your shirt?

did your son ask you why
you were half an hour late to pick him up from school
and when you came, you were a mess?

do they ask you why you took the kodak off the shelf and brushed off the dust
do they ask you why you wear that suit and those jeans more often now
do they ask you why you seem to be haunted by ghosts of your guilt
do they ask you why you started leaving your hair long
do they ask you why you started smoking a pipe again
do they ask you why you come home late, late, later
do they ask you why you don't do horror any more
do they ask you why you
do they ask you why
do they ask you
do they ask
do they

"i have a question," you say to me,
drunk and drowsy, tangled hair and sweaty palms,
"do you love me?"

but

why do you ask me if i love you
when you're the one leaving me
every
single
night?

do you
do you think
do you think I
do you think I am selfish
do you think I am arrogant
do you think I am deserving
do you think I am just a fool
do you think I am too young, too naive
do you think I wanted this wanted this i never wanted this
do you think I love you of course I love you, I love you, I love you
do you think of me

the simplest of questions and the most complex of answers, the most
do
you
love
me
(back)
?

you will never know the extent of just how fiercely i love you- even if i have not yet lost myself in the galaxies of your eyes, or let my fingers entangle in your hair, or let your taste linger on your lips, and what do i know, they ask, what do i know-

i know, i know you don't do horror, i know you are a photographer, i know you love poetry, i know, i know you are beautiful, you are radiant, you are warm as the sunlight on my skin-

i know, i know- even though your breath has never dappled my cheek the way the sunrays have, or you have never let your skin skim mine, or the way you look at me will never be the way i do-

i know, i know- even though my breathless longing leaves me only with glimpses across a hall, or my words to you edge no further than the confines of lines within a diary, or i can be right in front of you and still so, so far from your heart-

so close, yet so far, here, there, everywhere, nowhere, distant, d i s t a n t, d   i   s   t   a   n   t   -

i am leaving. farewell, farewell-

i know i will come back, i know i will come back, iknowiwillcomeback, they all come back, theyallcomeback iwillcomeback-  

but it will never be the same. and one day, they stop, and they say i will, too-

the hallways will no longer echo with your footsteps (only in my heart), i will search in vain for your silhouette (trick of the eye), over, over, over-

i know where i stand in your world, but is it so wrong to hope, to dream, to want-

the last words fall from my lips; sowrongsoright; i love you, iloveyou, goodbye.

of water-
of water under the bridge,
of currents, of stars, of gales, of the way the earth moves
of movement. restless movement, and cycles, and change
and youth.

and you tell me
"love is a whirlwind,
the tides that break upon the sand
planetshaking change
and the burning of the sun"

of water-
of water in the well,
of ripples, of the hearth, of the breeze, of the seedlings in the soil
of stillness. of tranquil stillness, and a silent heartbeat, and a steady pulse,
and age.

and i have learnt
"infatuation is a whirlwind,
the tides that break upon the sand
planetshaking change
and the burning of the sun,

and love makes you want to hold still,
and build,
and last."

you will forget
the colour of my eyes
and the way i turn to the back door
instinctively, when i hear the click
and how, unlike you all, i do not yell across the cubicles
the way i crushed boxes for two hours, then
and how i cry, too easily
the six pack of strawberry milk (fresh from the fridge) that only i drank
the smell of fish and chips that wafted through the office and-

-you will forget my love,
my loyalty,
and soon enough,
you will forget me.

i don't want to forget.

"don't want to?"

no. i can't.

i cannot forget the christmas decorations that must be down by now
or the perpetually-unmanned front
or stale, recycled, air-conditioned oxygen that tasted like bliss
and lemon stained fish and chips, and salad that came out of a tub,
and scalding heat against my palm
and tears.

i cannot forget the way she laughs
like an orchestra of the wind beneath the branches
or the way you shook my hand
and made me feel like i belonged and
how you, you, my love, you are bothering to go to the trouble of sending me registered mail
so it doesn't get lost
the way i do, in her eyes

i cannot forget how you are different. special
and how you refuse to take selfies that are glamorous
because you have a sense of fun and
the first time you ever saw me, drenched
dedicated, yearning, and already in irrevocable love.

i cannot forget the strike i scored
with my eyes on a screen instead of a lane and
the cookies, the vouchers, the games
the screwdrivers, shoes, and sushi

i cannot forget the goodbyes i never said
in case i never say them, the next time i can
that once upon a time-
i belonged.

i cannot forget beauty and goodness and strength and
laughter and belonging and teasing and acceptance and
loyalty and experience and diversity and determination and
passion and teamwork and friendship and family and
love.

i cannot forget.
because you will.

you know what they say
if nobody remembers something any longer
did it really exist?

when i was young and foolish i thought that was so ridiculous
because it's happened- so it must exist
mustn't it?
and now i see why
the philosophers say what they do
and why people doubt.

i am so afraid to forget
because if i can,
then others can (and will), as well.

but as long as i remember (even if it fades from the collective remembrance)
then it will always exist
even if only
in the land of memories
and dreams upon our dreams
where we can never set foot upon again.

i used to play hide and seek with my querencia
(or did it, with me?)
games are captivating for the young soul
where play is forever and
pain is a dream upon a dream

and perhaps
i hid behind too many walls
and stole away from its heart
one time too many
and one day- i lost it. my favourite spot
(loss tastes like the colour of the rain.)

wirra
that is how you describe the goodbyes that were never said
(and even that is not enough)
so you try to forget and the walls you used to play behind
become shields. and barriers.
physical representations of my farewell.

then one day i discovered a different wor(l)d
the bonjour to the au revoir that querencia never left me with
it is all i could ever want
(words are not enough and the dictionary lies)

because my definition of serendipity,
is you.

when you are three you will bring home your first tracks of mud from the garden when you sneak out of the door to play. i will wash the grass stains off your socks and tell you to wait for mummy to come out next time too.

when you are four you will bring home your first macaroni necklace from nursery school and try to eat it raw. i will put it around your neck and we will make pasta together, minus the glue.

when you are five you will bring home tears and your first bleeding knee after falling off your tricycle. i will clean up the wound with antiseptic, put on a smiley face band aid and tell you it is okay to cry.

when you are six you will bring home your first finger painting from kindergarten and a white tee shirt that is streaked with a myriad of colour. i will place it on the laundry pile and we will stain canvas with paint coated fingers for the rest of the afternoon.

when you are seven you will bring home your first report card and babble excitedly about the A you got in art class. i will tell you i knew your teacher would love the tiger you drew that had too many teeth.

when you are eight you will bring home your first best friend and you will ask if you can have a sleepover. i will bake you cookies and put up a tent in the backyard so you can fall asleep under the blanket of stars.

when you are nine you will bring home your first 100 on a test and ask me if perfect is a good score. i will hug you and say that no score can be more perfect than you are.

when you are ten you will bring home your first girl guide badge and tell me you need it sewn on your uniform. i will teach you how to use a needle and thread and see your pride at accomplishing the task on your own.  

when you are eleven you will bring home your first medal from a junior fencing competition and tell me you love the foil but you are scared of the older ones who use epees and sabres (even though one day you will be one of them, too). i will hang the medal on your bedpost and show you my rusting sabre in the storeroom and tell you my stories.

when you are twelve you will bring home your first case of chickenpox from the girl who sits next to you in class. i will make you chicken soup and we will make bad puns about poultry for the next two weeks of quarantine.

when you are thirteen you will bring home your first failure on a test paper. i will sit with you in your room and go through your mistakes and we will learn together, because you are more than a number and i never want you to forget that

when you are fourteen you will bring home your first questions about why the girls in school giggle about boys when the name you doodle in your jotter book is the one of your hauntingly beautiful social studies teacher. i will tell you that love is whatever you believe it to be and who you love is less important than why you love them.

when you are fifteen you will bring home your first can of beer in an effort of rebellion and try to hide it in your room. i will get out the wine and we will share it and i will teach you all there is to know about alcohol and being careful around it, and regale you with stories about the fact that i am a happy drunk.

when you are sixteen you will bring home your first attempts at a resumé and tell me you want to find an internship. i will watch you with pride as you make your own way as part of the working crowd for the very first time and learn more than i could ever teach you on my own.

when you are seventeen you will bring home your first girlfriend and introduce her to me, blushing and stammering. i will smile and ask her if she wants any orange juice from the fridge, and watch you give me a grateful grin.

when you are eighteen you will bring home your first college application and all the relevant documents. we will sit down over the kitchen table and discuss the pros and cons of local and international schools.

when you are nineteen you will bring home a suitcase and some assignments when you come back home during break. i will watch you tuck in to local fare ravenously and listen to you dreamily talk about the girl you share your dormitory with.

when you are twenty you will bring home your first paycheck from a part-time job you’re holding while studying for your degree. i will joke with you on what blue chip stocks to invest it in and we will go out for dinner at a swanky restaurant together.

when you are twenty one you will bring home an engagement ring and ask me if it is too young to ask your dormmate turned lover forever. i will remind you that love has no age and preconceptions have no place in devotion.

when you are twenty two you will bring home everything you need to propose to the love of your life. i will watch her stare at you in shock and fall into your arms and cry, and i will smile at the way your breath leaves your lungs, and you cry along with her.

when you are twenty three you will bring home your first pre-wedding jitters and be fretting about tomorrow’s ceremony. i will reassure you that everything will be perfect- even if it isn’t.

when you are twenty four you will bring home your first spare key to your new place and entrust it to me. i will bring over the dishes you and your wife love every sunday and we will have dinner together, talking, teasing, and laughing till we cry.

when you are twenty five you will bring home your first daughter you have adopted from the orphanage.

and daughter, i hope you will tell her the things i have told you.

I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.

when you were five

remember how you thought words

were some of the most beautiful creations in the world

and you put exclamation marks behind everything

because your father said you used them for exciting things

and everything was exciting

and you never stopped talking

because everything was a melody

how you picked pages from the dictionary at random

and let the sounds slip and roll over your clumsy tongue

slide down your throat and taste them sweet against your lips

you promised yourself that growing up and adding years to your age

would never change anything-

but it did.

i watch you sometimes

buried in a heap of textbooks and assignments

the light seeping through the crack under your door till two in the morning

and i hear you curse the very existence of the same words

you once so revered

there is no meaning to

(or love for)

the letters you pen and the ink stains against snow white sheets

and i wish i could turn back time to see

the little child who thought the dictionary held wonders of the world

and gave more than monosyllabic answers to questions posed to them

heaven knows when the curiosity in your eyes died (and why i never noticed)

but god knows i would give up so much

to see it there,

again.

you came to me in the first dewdrops of spring
with the scent of newleaf lingering on your lips
and the taste of fresh rosebuds and honeysuckle
a mere whisper on my tongue
your kiss the heat of summer sunlight blistering against my skin
and ripping my throat open in a blaze of inferno
heaven knows how you quell the flames
with the same brush of lips against mine
you dance forever in my mind’s eye on dappled autumn leaves
with the swirl of the breeze tousling in your hair
a symphony of red yellow brown and glittering eyes
footsteps going crunch crunch crunch over the carpet of my heart
your goodbye is the wind that whips through my eternal winter
as the snow settles in the silent solstice
i crave crave crave crave the fervent heat once more just once more
REPEAT.
cyclic cyclic cyclic
as i fall in love with you all over again.
(like the mist that rolls in with the first snow that tumbles like waves from the sky/like the budding of the flowers in the garden and the fallen petals beneath your soles/like the gradual melt of ice cream onto sticky fingers and stained flip-flops/like the green fading into a myriad of blossoming colour the facade of beauty disguising slow death)
baby, you break my heart slow