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  Jan 30 Christy Sandhu
Stanley
Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,
First poem I've written, to anybody who reads this is hope you enjoyed it and it made you day a little better
Christy Sandhu Dec 2019
even in the stillness of death she looked so beautiful
  Nov 2019 Christy Sandhu
Anne
if dreams were real
like they said.

wouldn’t you
   meet me?
                                                        
under                               *    
                                   *      *     *     *      *
                                   *         the      *   *
                          *      *      *          *    *      ­

                                    *        eiffel         *     *  
                          *             *           *             *       *
                        *       *          t o w e r         *         *
                       *    *      *      *        *        *          *     *
                              *    where lovers meet.
whoops accidentally got deleted.
  Nov 2019 Christy Sandhu
julie
once my parents said
that we had to move

away from my home town,
my birth place,
my comfort zone.

I found myself
in Paris then,
hardly not speaking any french,
missing the beaches of Cali
and thinking of better times

Sitting in a little cafe
near Rue Bonaparte
sharing a cigarette
with a gray-haired stranger

philosophizing about life
and feeling the sand of
Santa Monica Beach
on my skin

Suddenly a stranger asked me
something I didn't understand

so I stuttered
menez-moi à la maison,
à l'endroit auquel j'appartiens
last sentence means: "take me home to the place I belong"
  Nov 2019 Christy Sandhu
Robin Lemmen
romanticize our problems
until they are colored in pink and purple hues
baby blue mornings filled with you
fantasize our perfect life together
what if reality is the fake
coffee, music, and solitude can be found
any Saturday safely in your arms
awoken by kisses soft and gentle
until clothes end up getting lost somewhere
dancing around the living room
in our pajamas, without masks on
I wish this was still true
but this is not reality, this is not truth
this is me romanticizing past loving
like dreaming of Paris in the rain
to be the person of your dreams
to be less a body and more an idea
to be an unlit cigarette kissing your lips
the lavender in your coffee and the aftertaste in your mouth
your Malibu sunsets in a 70’s Mercedes
what if love is trying to break apart the barrier between what you see and what you feel
what if you close your eyes and you find yourself reaching out for me
I dream of what you’d see in me if you couldn’t see me at all
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