see, the thing about her

is that she wreaks havoc cities away



insert any word you’d like

insinuate, stimulate, incite, excite

she will make you want to taste them all



her lips do not trace with lipstick,

they trail thunderstorms of

invigoration, greed, and fulfillment

without having touched you at all



see, the thing about her

is that your invisibility is her tell-tale



she won’t make you delight in skin

or whatever is carnal, earthly, corporeal

never.

instead, she will make you want to write



because she will not become your pleasure

she becomes your whoever and whenever

and breathes life

into all your non-personal conjunctions



see, the thing about her

is that she is complicated chemistry

a principle of uncertainty

in a world governed by relativity



she will be be here

but she will disappear

with the world’s unobtrusive

waves of tenets



nothing good will leave

but love, you forget,

nothing you want ever remains



see, the thing about her

is that she makes you want to use

your tongue and your hands



not on her, love, but on your earth

she is your language

she is your dictionary

she is the words at the tip of your tongue



and no, you will not have her body

you will never have her body

see, she permeated your mind

while you were fretting over skin



see, whatever she is, no matter what you do,

she will always have you



trapped.



in a psychological

wormhole

of want

and creed



she: both ultra-violet and ultra-violent

there’s a delhi boy, somewhere out there

i like to to think that he is the physical embodiment of opposite day

because when push him away, he pulls me back

when i tell him i hate him, he says he loves me

and when i say i want to leave and im halfway to leaving through the door,

he grabs my arm,

pulls me back,

and gently says,



“this is YOUR house, you can’t leave YOUR OWN house. you’re being ridiculous. also where do you keep the mayo?”



there’s a delhi boy, somewhere out there

and he’s pretty **** wild

when i say wild, i dont mean he lives like every day is his last

i mean he’s wild enough to believe there will always be a tomorrow

and don’t get me wrong, im not saying that like it’s a bad thing

because when i tell him i won’t survive that night

somehow his tomorrow-ness always helps me make it to the sunrise



you see, he’s the first boy i haven’t scared away

with my tendency to want to die

no, it’s much more than that

in fact

he plants entire fields of flowers for me

instead of picking a few to put on my to-be casket

like everyone else does

he writes to me with the flower stems

and makes me feel like im the backbone of all his sentences

even though im more a sentence fragment, missing conjunctions, is that a misspelling of because? kinda gal

he likes to edit, but he never takes credit for fixing me



you see, writer’s block becomes a hollow garden full of red ikea flowers shrouded in my guts when i think of him

because it’s not that i don’t know what to say

its that i have so much to say all at once

because he is so much of everything good i did not know i deserved

for the distance between us not to hurt

the closest thing I have to an accepted prayer

as someone

that doesn’t really believe in soulmates, I mean



can you even objectively define a soulmate?

even if you could, what is the statistical probability that your soulmate isn’t dead?


i guess he can be unfamiliar territory because

im so used to people tearing off the parts of me they need

and hes the first one to ever say he would not let any part of me go



theres a delhi boy out there

and i hope he knows that he always has a home in my notebooks

because my writing comes from my heart and he has mine

i hope he knows that he fits in between the lines of my poems better than the spaces

of our fingers when im holding his hand and

after heartbreak after heartbreak after heartbreak



he is my first healing

& happiness,

happiness is like an old home ive never visited

the one we see in dreams

like the ones on ivy-bridged hills

like the ones in cold breezes that gives birth to shuddering hearts

& sadness,

sadness is like that broken road to a broken home

it is misfortune disguised as your biggest familiarity

its like that rubble ridden road to the airport

I am so afraid of the rumble of engines

its like the gravel on a ghost carpeted floor

echoing with footsteps of a child

child with broken teeth

child that is fast-forwarded entropy now

& roofs,

roofs i may have over my head

but,

whats a home when roofs cant shelter you from the blizzard right underneath it?

tell me.

whats it like?

when familiarity is your biggest fear?

like how the door to your childhood home reminds you of being trapped in forever

or how the sunset through the ***** window only reminds of you of how blind youve been

because I

I am tired of fighting past the empty  alleyway haunted by ghosts I cant forget

I am tired of the cold blizzard that freezes my words

I am tired of the asphyxiating snowstorms that anesthize my breath
I am tired of the broken past and-

thats okay.

because;

the cold wind blisters my lungs but sometimes its the only thing that reminds me im still pretty much alive

now, its only time

that i get to the home ive never visited to dig up the grave you buried my innocence

and finally reclaim

what has always been mine.