I was there when they buried us
beneath the light rain and grey sky
that felt for us — they cry

and polished our ivory tombstone,
sugarcoating our untimely end
into the start of something fine

only to allow them to mourn
and, with ease, pretend
as if it wasn’t their poison
that lead us to our end.

The black substance
fills the void within me
the way salt
dissolves in the sea.

Coming uninvited,
she befriends me when
the moon turns away
her pale, silver shine.

Filling my mind to the brim,
she filters my reality
with grayscale glasses
through which I see

everything around me
has become her reflection,
and she is no longer
anything but a part of me.

The black substance
fills the void within me –
and I am now
nothing but her sea.

the gloomy scenery
stretches out before me:
a winding path of life
lined by blossomed vines
that curl and die as seconds fly.

I do not dare to look back
at the shrinking vines,
nor think of the momentary nature
of life’s strawberry wine.

yet time persists, though I resist
to follow down the rabbit hole
where clear water in riverbeds,
the flowers and the tabby cats,
will turn to ash, to dust, to die.

Your heat lit the cold candlestick,
turning its white fuse into bright orange
whose light illuminate my night

The flame’s dances are no ordinary dance;
they bewitch our hands and lips to
sway to its song, sharing warmth in its light.

The tear-shaped wax drops, however, worry me —
they drip and drip as the flame got us tighter in its grip,
like deadly tick of a metronome
that counts down the life of the candlestick

Yet in the shadow of its closure
the warmth of the flame feel sure,
and the dance is such a lure —
so much that it leaves no choice
but to devour every last bit of light
and let the candle burns as long as it might.

A sudden gust of icy wind
in summer caress my cheek tenderly

I breathe her in and let her coldness
refreshes the barreness within

I breathe her in and devour
the freshness she brings

I breathe her in and close my eyes
to the inevitable exhale,

not thinking of the stinging frost
she’ll leave in her wake,

nor the return of the scorching sun.